Not Leaving
by oleanderhoney
Summary: John Watson thought this was it for him after he returned from Afghanistan - runny noses and the tedium of working a job at a private practice. Aimless and bitter, he never thought he would find his purpose again. Enter Sherlock, a little boy desperately needing rescue from the wreckage of his life, and John gets more than he ever thought possible...a family. Kid!lock.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello all. OleanderHoney here. I have had this idea for a long time, and I wanted to explore this particular dynamic seeing as how I've looked, and haven't come across anything like this. I hope you all like it, and if any of you know me you know feedback is invaluable to me as a writer. This does talk a little about child abuse so if that is a trigger for you please be aware. There is no sexual abuse in this story however, because I am not very knowledgeable on the subject and I am trying to be as delicate as possible.**

**Usual disclaimers apply. I do not own Sherlock. The characters and basic plot lines belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and the BBC.**

* * *

A DEFINITION NOT FOUND  
IN THE DICTIONARY  
Not leaving: an act of trust and love,  
often deciphered by children.  
― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

-oOo-

Doctor John Watson hated house-calls.

Most of the time it was a couple of paranoid parents that read somewhere vaccinating their kids leads to autism or how hospitals can undoubtedly leave you exposed to more diseases than licking the turnstiles in the Underground, and that's why even though their child was_clearly_ dying of rubella, they couldn't take him/her/it/who-gives-a-shit in to be properly examined. And then proceeding to get angry at _him_for wasting _their time_ when, in fact, the diagnosis turned out to be nothing more than heat rash and irritation most likely caused from changing detergents.

The other fifty-percent of the time turned out to be cantankerous old people oddly surrounded by unidentifiable odours that usually had nothing to do with their ailments. He wasn't sure which was worse.

So, when Sarah asked him if he could drop in on one of their patients at the end of a very trying day filled with runny noses, an addict clearly doctor shopping, and at least one hypochondriac — _No Mrs. Cartwright, you do not have prostate cancer. You actually need a prostate first._ — he was less than thrilled to say the least.

"Jefferson Hope?" John says looking down at the patient print-out Sarah just handed him.

"Er, his son actually," Sarah says. "He was scheduled to come in tomorrow, but he requested that if at all possible he would prefer if someone would be willing to come out today and take a look at the little tyke's arm. Apparently it's a pretty nasty sprain."

"Well if it's just a sprain then is it completely necessary for me to make the trip to…" he glances down at the file, "Jesus, Greenwich?"

"I don't know what you're used to, Doctor Watson, but this is a private practice, and here we believe in providing the best for our patients," Sarah says sternly.

"No, no. It's fine. I just — it's fine," he says again trying to get back into her good graces. She had taken a risk in hiring him, invalided Army Doctor with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp like he was, and the last thing he wanted was to throw that back in her face. He tries to smile amicably, but he's not sure if he manages it. She seems to buy it however, and hands him the standard packet of papers that was protocol for house visits.

"Thank you," she says tersely, and leaves him standing in the middle of his office.

He clenches the handle of his cane and grits his teeth. _Great._ That was at least a forty minute Tube ride with two interchanges because god knows cab fare doesn't quite factor into his budget at the moment. He hated the Underground. Too much standing.

He sighs wearily, and grabs his bag and jacket. Treating colds and dealing with the grievances of London transportation: how was this his life now? When only six months prior he was patching gun-shot wounds in the midst of a fire fight?

His hand shakes as he reaches for his scarf.

_Damn. What was the point anymore?_

…

The house is part of a duplex, and is in an area in North Greenwich that is particularly worn down from the damp of the Thames and London weather. It's the kind of neighborhood that gets by mostly on nostalgia and twitchy old ladies peeping from behind their curtains. At first glance it's rather mundane, but under the façade John doesn't doubt it's the type of community that has its secrets. By all means, he shouldn't feel so paranoid but old habits die hard. After all, at the very worst he could get attacked by a lawn ornament, have to be vigilant.

He makes his way up the set of steps, juggling his bag and cane awkwardly, and jabs the buzzer.

He waits a few beats, shifting impatiently before he presses it again, holding for a bit longer. If he came all the way down here for bloody_nothing_ he was going to —

The faint sound of a scraping deadbolt as it is turned from the other side of the door has John tilting his head expectantly. It is a slow process, careful and precise, followed by the deliberate turning of the door knob. Slowly, oh so slowly, the door opens, and John's eyes travel down to where a pale, anxious face peers out at him through the crack.

"Um, hello," John says.

The child, no more than five or six, blinks up at him from under his fringe of riotous black curls. The first thing John notices is just how big those eyes are — great blue orbs of innocence almost too big for his face that only grow wider when John kneels down in front of him. The little boy tracks his movement, flickering over his face and down to his hands before back up again, and John realises there is something else behind those eyes…the closest thing he can call it is _knowing._

"Is your dad home?" John tries after a moment. Small lips press into a thin line, and the door opens just a little more as if deciding whether or not to close it.

"He's not my dad," comes the quiet reply. "And – and he's not here."

John frowns. "Someone called me to come and see you."

"I did," the little boy says a little louder. An expression of triumph crosses his face before he shutters it away almost as if ashamed. The alarm bells in John's head increase. There was something not right about this picture. He observes a little closer, and notices that yes, the child seems to be waiting to be reprimanded, subconsciously tucking his right arm against his chest like a broken wing.

John is angry now for an entirely different reason, and he works his hardest to swallow it down. He would have to be an idiot to ignore the signs. He makes his face as open and honest as he can, however, and offers a smile.

"My name is John Watson. What is yours?" he asks.

"Sherlock," the little boy says.

"Sherlock. I don't think I've ever heard that name before."

"It means bright hair," Sherlock pipes. "English in origin. But my hair is dark. It's a ox…oxy-mor-mon."

John smiles a little. "An oxymoron?"

"Yes," he says making a face. "Something that is the opposite of what it is."

"You are very smart, Sherlock. Can I come in?" John says.

Sherlock smiles fleetingly at the compliment. Then, incongruously he says, "I'm not allowed to let in strangers," and opens the door anyway.

"Too right. But I'm not a stranger," John says picking himself up and following the small child into the house.

"I know. You're a doctor," Sherlock says and leads them passed the crammed living quarters filled with bookshelves simply overflowing with books. It smells like cigar smoke and damp and there is a distinct, clammy chill in the air. Other than a stuffed bumble bee sitting on the sofa, there are no other indications that a child lives here.

"How old are you, Sherlock?" John says.

"I think I'm five and a half," Sherlock says thoughtfully, and with one hand pulls a dining chair up next to the counter. John, having been momentarily distracted with trying to gather more information based on the drab little flat, snaps his attention back to his little charge.

"What do you mean, you think?" John says, coming further into the dank kitchen.

With careful balance, Sherlock climbs dutifully onto the chair and sits on the work top. He shrugs, his ratty t-shirt slipping briefly over the crest of one shoulder exposing it to the chill of the draught whistling in from the window. He shivers unconsciously.

"That's how old I feel," he replies. "There are children that look like me in some of my books."

John comes over and sets his kit down, searching the boy's face. "Do you not know when your birthday is?"

"Birthday?" Sherlock says, tilting his head inquisitively. John reels at this, and a mixture of rage and sadness swells within him as the evidence before him confirms his worst fears. _What child didn't know about birthdays?_ A neglected one, that's what.

"Sherlock…" he says trying to keep his voice steady. "Does your father know I'm here?"

Sherlock's eyes grow impossibly wide, and his lip trembles. "He's not my father," he says again, curling in on himself.

"Who do you live with?" John says pulling up a stool so he could sit a little more at eye-level with him.

"Mister Hope. He takes care of me when…when my father is away," Sherlock says, breath hitching.

"Is there a number for him that I can call —?" John starts.

"No! No you can't, please!" Sherlock suddenly cries out, terror filling his small face, and tears welling in his eyes. He goes to scramble off the counter, and John tries to stop him, but he drops to the floor, back pressing hard into the cabinets. "I shouldn't have called you. I'm sorry. I don't want to get in trouble."

"Hey, hey, it's all right," John says trying to soothe, crouching down again and clasping his thin shoulders. Sherlock shakes, terrified. "We don't have to call anyone."

"We don't?" Sherlock says warily, clutching his arm to him again.

"Of course not," John says. "You did the right thing calling me. Don't you forget that."

Sherlock still looks unsure, but after a moment he nods. He exhales on a sob, fat crocodile tears finally breaking free and rolling down his cheeks. "My arm — it really hurts."

"Let's see if I can do something about that. Sound good?" John says, and Sherlock nods again. John gingerly lifts the little boy up under his arms and sets him back on the counter noticing how frighteningly thin his is. "Is it this one?" he asks, gently drawing Sherlock's right arm away from him and supporting it with one hand. With his other, he lightly palpates the area of the forearm that is clearly swollen.

"Yes," Sherlock says biting his lip in pain. However, he watches John with growing fascination, tears drying on his cheeks.

"When did this happen?" John asks, keeping his voice neutral in case he upsets him again.

"On Monday. The last time Mister Hope was here," Sherlock says. John closes his eyes. It was Wednesday. _Two days, Christ._ Two days of being alone, scared, and in pain. Who ever this sick bastard was, he deserved to be run over twice by a bloody train.

"Sherlock. Did Mr. Hope do this to you?" John asks him carefully.

Sherlock's breathing accelerates again, and he screws his eyes up tight. "I can't tell you," he says.

"Yes you can. You can tell me," John says, but Sherlock isn't listening. He jerks his arm back in a move that has to hurt, but he doesn't cry out. Instead he tries to fold in on himself as far as he can, trying desperately not to make a sound as silent sobs wrack his frame. It's the picture of a child who is used to being punished for crying. John knows of this well.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, stay with me, okay?" John says trying to get him to look up. His breathing is becoming erratic, and the colour is steadily draining from his face. John tucks his fingers under his neck feeling for a pulse, and curses. It's fast and irregular. When was the last time he ate a proper meal? Far, far too long. He recognised an impending crash when he saw one.

Without thinking twice, John gathers the little boy up into his arms, not at all shocked when he clings to him like a little sea urchin, a wiry arm around the back of his neck and legs tight around his waist. The poor thing is obviously starved for affection, among other things, and is absolutely scared witless. He buries his face into John's jumper and continues to hold back tears as John shoulders his kit and makes his way out of the kitchen.

On his way out of the flat, he grabs the stuffed bumble bee sitting on the couch, and doesn't look back. The whole of him is filled with a protective rage that spurs him on with a single-mined purpose: get Sherlock to safety.

His strides are even and his hands are steady where they hold the small shaking body to his own.

His cane is left standing against the front door, completely forgotten.

-oOo-

"St. Bart's, please," John says slipping into the cab with his arms full of trembling child. "The quicker the better."

"You got it, mate," the cabbie says eyeing them closely, and pulls away from the kerb. After a moment, John sees the driver flick off the fare. He is immensely grateful, and makes a mental note to give him a healthy tip.

"Sherlock?" John says gently. Sherlock winces, and presses his face into John's collarbone hard enough to hurt. "It's all right. I'm just taking you to a friend of mine where he can look at your arm." This only makes the little boy shake harder, and John is rapidly running out of ways to keep him calm. He suddenly remembers the bumble bee, and grabs it from its place next to his med bag. "I've brought along someone. Can you tell me his name?"

At first John thinks Sherlock is too catatonic to register what's even going on, but after a moment, he feels him shift ever so slightly. John feels soft curls tickle his chin as Sherlock turns his head to peer out from his hiding place.

"There you are," John whispers encouragingly. Sherlock reaches out with his uninjured arm and wraps his fingers around one of the fuzzy antennae. He doesn't pull it too him at first, he merely rubs it between his fingertips in a soothing manner of some sort. Finally, as if unsure if he really was allowed to, he hugs it to him. After a minute, his shaking eases some, and John hears him murmur softly to the plush toy. Then, so quietly that John almost misses it, he says,

"Did someone hurt your arm too?"

"What do you mean?" John asks. Sherlock sits back in his lap so he could gaze up at him with his imploring blue eyes still bright with tears.

"Your arm," he repeats. "It hurts too."

Before John has a chance to wonder, Sherlock brings his hand up and places his palm over John's left shoulder — right where his old gunshot wound was.

"How do you know that?" John says mouth dropping open.

Sherlock jumps as if he's been slapped, a string of words falling from his lips rapid fire.

"You carried me but it hurt. You use your left hand for most things so you didn't notice, but I did. Every five steps you pulled me up higher because I kept slipping. Your hand shakes sometimes, too. Someone hurt you real bad like they did me because you're better but the hurt is still there. It was someone far away though," he says frowning.

"Far away?"

"Because of your hands," Sherlock says tracing a finger around the tan line around his wrist. "and your face," he touches the same finger to his cheek. "It's too many clouds in England. Where did you go when you got hurt?"

"I was in Afghanistan," John says, stunned.

"Were you fighting? Bad men?" Sherlock asks meekly.

"I was mostly helping the sick ones," John replies. Sherlock nods thoughtfully to himself, and John smiles sadly. He was such a serious child, but he was incredibly smart. He saw things most people would find inconsequential and pieced them together to form a whole picture as easy as breathing. John didn't know anyone that could do anything like that. All the more reason why it was a crime what had been done to him. How could anyone hurt a child as helpless and as innocent as he?

"Your leg is hurt too, but now it's better," Sherlock says breaking John's train of thought. He starts, suddenly realising he doesn't have his cane with him. "It's not the same hurt as this," he continues, the little hand resting back over his shoulder. "It only hurts you when you are sad."

"How could you _possibly_ know that?" John says, completely bowled over. Sherlock mistakes his astonishment for something else, and he snatches his hand away, seeking his bumble bee that had momentarily fallen between them.

"I'm sorry!" he says, the word muffled through the stuffed toy as he brings it up to his face.

"Hey, now," John chides gently. "There's nothing to be sorry for. That was incredible."

Slowly, the furry mass of yellow and black lowers itself revealing those brilliant eyes once more. "Really?"

"Of course. It was extraordinary," John says, completely beside himself. "You are a very smart little boy."

Sherlock blinks owlishly at him, expression contorting in intense confusion. "That's not what people usually says," he whispers.

"What do people usually say?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock tucks his head back under John's chin, fingers absently playing with his scarf as he continues to shiver lightly. With one hand John rubs circles into his back, frowning when he can feel one too many vertebrae. He pulls his bag over and rummages around for something, and finds a packet of biscuits at the bottom.

"Are you hungry?" John asks, and Sherlock stiffens.

"No," is the muffled reply.

"You're allowed, it's okay," John tires again bringing the biscuits closer. Sherlock's breath hitches, and John puts them away. "All right. You don't have to." He resumes his stroking, and pulls out his mobile. He dials a number, and presses it to his ear, hoping that it won't go into voicemail. After the third ring, someone picks up.

_"Dr. Stamford speaking."_

"Hey, Mike. It's John Watson from Sawyer Private Practice."

_"John, mate! It's been a while. What can I do for you?"_ Mike says cheerfully.

"Yeah, uh, are you at Bart's today?"

_"No, but I can be. What's seems to be the problem?"_

"I have someone I really need you to see. It's kind of an urgent case."

_"Who's the patient?"_ Mike says, and John can hear rustling in the background as he grabs his things.

"Little boy between five and six. I'm not sure, but I think it's a greenstick fracture to his right radius."

_"Oh…is that all?"_ Mike says, confused.

"No. No that's not all. I was wondering…does your wife still work for social services?" John says trying to keep his voice steady. There's a sharp intake of breath on the other end as his colleague fits the pieces together.

_"Yeah she does. Do you want me to bring her with me?"_

"I think you better, Mike. It's…it's really bad," John says lowering his tone.

_"Jesus,"_ he sighs resignedly, _"All right, we're on our way. I'll call ahead so we can get you in right away. Just tell Jennifer who you are, and she'll show you back."_

"Thanks, mate," John says. "Thank Michelle for me too, will you?"

_"Of course,"_ Mike says, and rings off.

John tucks his phone back into his coat pocket, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He tries to quell the nausea welling up inside of him. God, he fought a war against an enemy he was convinced was the scum of the earth only to come home to _this?_ The cruelty of men really doesn't discriminate in the end. It was bloody sickening. John hated to think what else Sherlock might have been subjected to, and he has to stop his thoughts from spiraling down much darker avenues.

He glances down, and sees that Sherlock has fallen asleep, his tiny fist still clutched in the blue scarf around his neck as if afraid John would simply vanish. He cards his fingers through the baby soft hair, his throat searing with sudden emotion when Sherlock whimpers softly, trying to curl up in a ball.

"Shh, I've got you," John murmurs, and continues to rub his back. He finally settles down just as they approach the hospital, and John tries his hardest not to jostle him too much when he gets out of the cab.

Sherlock's eyes fly open, and there's a moment of panic as he cries out and frantically grabs onto the front of John's coat.

"Wh – where – where —?"

"We're at the hospital, remember? Going to see my friend so he can make your arm feel better," John says heading for the lifts.

"There's lots of people here," Sherlock says, voice hoarse. He squeezes his eyes shut a few times. "Lots of stories. Too many stories. Make my head hurt."

"You can close your eyes," John says, and Sherlock does what he's told, the intense shaking starting up again making his teeth chatter. "Hey, Sherlock?" John says as they wait for the lift to take them to pediatrics, "How high can you count?"

"I c – can count really high," Sherlock say against his chest. "Really high if I wanted. Prolly forever. Numbers don't run out."

"That's right they don't. Can you count to one hundred for me? By the time you finish, you can open your eyes."

"Okay…" he says, and starts counting in a steady rhythm.

The lift finally comes, and he goes in pressing the floor he wants, and waits for them to start going. After a few stops along the way, they finally make it to peds, and John finds the correct suite for Stamford's office.

Sherlock is still counting by the time they make it back into the small exam room, and John waits for him to finish.

"…ninety-nine, one hundred," he says stilling, fist clenching anxiously in John's scarf again.

"Very good. You can open them now, I promise. It's just us here."

Sherlock makes a little whine in the back of his throat, but with a bit more encouragement from John finally opens his eyes. His lips part in astonishment as he looks around the colourful room with dancing teddy bears on the walls, and a shiny red fire truck table in the corner. He hugs his bumble bee to his chest, head on a constant swivel until it comes to rest on the plastic skeleton in the corner. He gasps a little, and John looks into his face for any signs of distress, but what he finds instead is bright curiosity.

"Bones," he mouths, eyes wide.

"That's right. Do you want to see?" John asks, and Sherlock nods vigourously. John gets closer to where Sherlock can touch if he wanted. He doesn't, but he gazes at the skeleton with rapt fascination.

"Maxilla," he whispers, looking back to John.

"Hm?"

"Maxilla," he says a little louder and puts a finger to John's cheek again. The finger travels to the arch of his eyebrow. "Supra-or-bital process," he enunciates. John blinks in surprise.

"Very good. How do you know that?"

"I read it," Sherlock says and sighs. His small hand cups John's jaw. "Mandible." Down to his collar bone, "Clavicle." He turns to look at the skeleton again in contemplation. After a moment he asks in a hushed voice, "Is it real?"

"No. He's just pretend," John says. Sherlock sags in relief.

"Okay."

The sound of a knock alerts them, and John turns as Mike Stamford enters the room.

"Why hello there!" Mike says with a smile, and Sherlock tenses.

"It's all right, Sherlock. This is my friend, Dr. Stamford."

"Are you going to look at my arm?" Sherlock asks tremulously.

"If that's okay with you?" Mike says taking a few steps towards them. Sherlock thinks for a moment, looking back at John for guidance, and John nods.

"Doctors make people better," he says, seemingly steeling himself. He looks back to Stamford. "Okay."

"You're very courageous," Stamford says, and John sets him down on top of the exam table covered in paper. "Who's your friend?" Stamford asks, pointing to the stuffed bee in Sherlock's lap.

"His name is Geoffrey," Sherlock says playing with the floppy felt wings.

"Has Geoffrey ever been to the doctors?" Stamford says patting the bee on the head as if he were real.

"No," Sherlock says with a funny little frown.

"Oh well do you mind if I listen to his heart for a check up?" Stamford says playfully. He removes the stethoscope from around his neck.

"Geoffrey doesn't have a heart," Sherlock says. "He's full of stuffing."

Stamford blinks, and John laughs. "Good try, Mike. Can't pull one over on him, the clever little bugger," Sherlock's lips waver in an almost-smile for a moment, and John gets and idea. "You can have a listen to me though. I haven't been to the doctors in a while for my check up."

Stamford nods, grateful, and goes to put the stethoscope in his ears. He pauses, looking back to Sherlock. "Actually, would _you_ like to listen to John's heart?"

Sherlock's eyes grow wide, and he looks between the two as if he can't believe what he's hearing. "Can I?"

"Of course," Stamford says and hands Sherlock the stethoscope, helping him position it correctly in his own ears. John takes off his coat and scarf, and pulls off his jumper to where only his undershirt remained. He hesitates for a moment before he takes that off too, and watches as those piercing eyes settle over the gnarled flesh of his scar.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side as he looks at it. Tentatively he reaches out and traces a finger over the starburst epicentre before trailing outwards to follow the arc lines shrapnel left in their wake. He finally meets John's gaze again, and in a low voice he says,

"Hurt real bad."

John regards the little boy for a moment and nods. "Yes it did. But it doesn't hurt too much now."

Sherlock considers this, his palm covering the old wound once more. After a minute he seems satisfied, and he looks up to Stamford.

"Wanna give it a listen?" he asks, and Sherlock nods. "All right then," he says and guides the stethoscope to rest directly in the centre of John's chest.

Sherlock's face practically lights up like a Christmas tree at this, and it's one of the best things John's seen in his entire life. He vows that Sherlock should look like that always — so full of wonder and curiosity — not this scared little waif of a thing.

"There are four chambers in the human heart," Sherlock says.

"That's correct," Stamford says. "Smart lad."

"Two ven...ven-_tri_-cles and two atriums," he recites, lowering the stethoscope.

"Fantastic," John says beaming at him, and he manages to pull out the faintest of smiles from Sherlock. "Do you think Dr. Mike can listen to you now?"

Sherlock looks down at the stethoscope in his hand for a moment before nodding.

"Okay," he says and hands it over. He grabs the hem of his oversized t-shirt with his uninjured hand, and goes to pull it over his head, but hesitates, his head shooting up in a panic.

"It's all right," John encourages. "Do you need help?"

Sherlock nods, blinking rapidly, the tears from pain or anxiety John doesn't know. Carefully, he reaches out, and lifts the shirt, being mindful of his right arm, and pulls it over his head.

What he sees makes him want to grab the side of the exam table for balance.

If John thought he was thin before, seeing him like this, he's nearly transparent. Every time Sherlock takes a breath, his narrow rib cage moves under the skin protruding in a way that makes him look unbearably fragile. There's also a large, yellowish bruise over his abdomen in the final stages of healing, as well as a few fresh ones dappling his upper arms. Fingertip bruises, he realises. He shares a knowing glance with Stamford.

"Okay, Sherlock," Stamford says huffing a warm breath onto the pad of the stethoscope. He places it on Sherlock's back. "Give us a deep breath."

Sherlock does what he is told beginning to shiver as the cool air of the room causes goose bumps to rise up on his skin. John places a warm hand over Sherlock's back as Stamford moves to the front and repeats the process.

"You did very good," he says looping the stethoscope back around his neck.

"Here," John says helping Sherlock into his plain white undershirt. There was no way he was going to let him wear that disgusting t-shirt again. He puts it over his head, and carefully guides his arms through the shirt sleeves before donning his own jumper. "Sherlock. I am going to ask you a question now, and I need you to do your very best to answer it. Can you do that?"

"I'll try," Sherlock answers bravely even though he continues to shake. John grabs his coat and drapes it over his shoulders.

"That's my Sherlock," John says. He swallows thickly, not sure if he wants to hear the answer to the question he knows he needs to ask. He takes a breath, nausea uncoiling in his gut, "Are you hurt anywhere else besides your arm? And I mean _anywhere._ You mustn't be afraid to tell me, it's very important."

Sherlock closes his eyes, his brow fretting in distress, and his mouth opening in a silent moue of a sob. He takes a stuttering gasp, and says, "My – my leg hurts too. It's a old hurt, but it's not getting better."

"Which one?" John says, and Sherlock bends forward so he could pull up his right trouser leg. John helps him tuck the baggy fabric over his knee, and gasps at the sight.

There, on the side of his calf, is a circular burn mark the size of a fifty pence piece. It's old, surely, but inflamed and leaking a bit of pus. It is clearly infected, and John grits his teeth in anger. It was clearly from a cigar.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock trembles, and John's eyes flash up.

"No, no, no, love. There's nothing for you to be sorry for. Absolutely nothing, do you understand?" John says earnestly cupping Sherlock's face between his palms. He wipes a tear away with his thumb. Sherlock looks at him in confusion, lip quivering. John feels as if his chest is breaking apart. "Now, after we get that fixed up, we are going to go with Dr. Mike so we can take a picture of your arm. Sound good?" He tries to give the most encouraging smile he can manage.

Sherlock nods minutely, and without thinking, John presses a light kiss on the crown of his head. He takes a few steps to the door, suddenly needing air feeling as if he's being crushed on all sides, his heart caving in.

"Don't!" Sherlock suddenly cries, and John rushes back to his side. "D-don't leave!"

"I'm just going to go get something to drink I'll be right back, okay?" John says. Sherlock doesn't believe him, and weakly fists his hand in John's jumper.

"Please, please," he mouths brokenly.

John grabs his blue scarf that was draped over the back of a chair. He tucks it around Sherlock's neck, and hunkers down so he is eye-level with him.

"You see this scarf? As long as you have it, I will always come back to you, all right? I'm _not_ leaving. I won't ever leave you," John says.

Sherlock takes a hiccoughing gulp trying to will away his tears. "P-promise?"

"I promise. I'll be just out there, okay?"

"Okay," he whispers.

John doesn't look back as he leaves, desperately trying to keep it together. He makes it to the loo just in time, locking it soundly behind him. His leg twinges as he stands in front of the mirror, and he braces himself over the sink as his breathing becomes jagged and sharp. Memories he had locked away so long ago surge to the surface with a vengeance, bringing with them all the rage and pain he had experienced in his own childhood. He feels sick, and turns on the tap. He pats some of the cool water on his face and the back of his neck, washing away the clammy sweat, and with it all of the broken images of his past. After a moment the bursts of light in his vision fades, and he straightens his spine, nodding at himself in the reflection.

_Never again._

He wasn't a little boy anymore. He was a soldier, a doctor. He had power now that he didn't have when he was the one under his own father's heel, and if there was anything, _anything,_ he could do for Sherlock, he would.

_Never again._


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thank you everyone who has left me feedback on this! It is much appreciated, and I wasn't expecting it to be as well received as it was. So here's Chapter Two!**

* * *

Sherlock wore the scarf all the way through the x-ray and was extremely brave even though John couldn't be in the room with him.

John watches him through the small window in the booth as the technician drapes the giant lead apron over his front and gently positions his arm under the crosshairs. She asks him something, and Sherlock nods, dark curls bobbing. She points to the window, and Sherlock follows her finger. After a moment he waves, and John waves back, the bumble bee clutched in his hand even though Sherlock can't see through the tinted glass.

"Has he said anything else besides the name of the man he was living with?" Michelle says next to him.

"No. I don't even know his last name," John says.

"I'm not even sure Sherlock is his first name," Michelle says, arms crossed. "My gut instinct was that he was kidnapped, but when I checked with my sources, there are no missing children with that name."

"Sources? Wait you've called the police already?" John says turning to her.

"John," she says fixing him with a look. "You've read the papers right? Seen the news?"

"Er…not recently? I'm afraid I don't have a telly," John says.

"Jefferson Hope's been in custody since Monday night for driving four people to commit suicide," she states.

John blinks at her incredulous. "I thought the 'serial suicides' were just tabloid rubbish. How can someone force you to kill yourself with poison?"

"So you have seen the papers," Michelle says.

"It's kind of hard not to see when something that audacious is splashed across every news stand. Have they done a press release yet?"

"No. The Detective Inspector on the case doesn't want any more publicity for this. I only know of Hope's involvement due to my source. Sergeant Donovan is on the team working the case. She and the DI are coming to assess the boy for competency and decide if he qualifies for special measures," Michelle says.

"What, today? He's completely traumatised. I don't even think he's ever been out of that house until today and you want to stick him in a room so they can ask him questions about his tormentor? Christ!" John says, incensed. "He damn near fell apart when I tried to get him to tell me how he hurt his arm!"

"John. I understand you're upset, but it's out of my hands. That little boy is part of a homicide investigation. Who knows what he's witnessed?"

"That little boy is a _little boy!"_ John thunders. The technician shushes him as she continues to snap images of Sherlock's arm.

Michelle looks at him, circles under her eyes, her lips pinched tight. "Don't you think out of all people that I would know that?" she says wearily, and John feels bad for losing his temper. He breathes out a steady breath though his nose and rubs his forehead with his fingers.

"No you're right. I'm – I'm sorry. I want to help. Tell me how I can help," John says.

"I'm going to need pictures of his injuries for documentation," Michelle says. "He trusts you, and if you were with him that would make everything a lot easier."

"Am I allowed to be with him when they question him?"

"I don't know. Generally speaking he should have a guardian with him, but since there isn't one, a _guardian ad litem_ will be appointed on his behalf. They are most likely bringing in one that works directly with the Met."

John's jaw tenses, but he nods his head.

"Then what happens?" John asks barely above a whisper. He watches through the window as the technician takes the apron off of Sherlock and gives him a lolly. He looks down at it as if he's never seen something like it before in his life, (and in all honesty he probably hasn't) and tucks it carefully away into his trouser pocket.

"Then," she says sighing, "we work on getting him placed."

"You have to get him placed with me," John says abruptly. He didn't even know he was going to say the words until he did, and they took him momentarily by surprise.

"John, I know you feel like you have an obligation to Sherlock because you were the one who found him but there are people who are…" she trails off trying to find the right word, and John scoffs.

"More stable?" he says bitterly.

"You did technically abduct him," she points out.

"Oh, what? You wanted me to just wrap up his arm and say 'See ya later kid, hope the deranged psychopath you're living with eventually comes back!' What horse shit!"

"Most people would have waited to make sure their assumptions were authenticated. There is protocol for this sort of thing. You know that," she says as they exit the booth and make their way back to the exam room.

"Sod protocol. I got him out of there. He was completely on his own. I prevented him from endangering himself further. Don't yank me around with your technicalities," he growls.

"John!" Michelle says grabbing his arm forcing them to stop just outside the room. "You have to consider what that looks like from the court's point of view. You look reckless and impulsive, and you already have a history of anger issues. If you really care for him, you have to think of what's best for Sherlock, now."

John deflates, conceding her point. He bows his head unable to meet her eyes. "It's not obligation," he says softly. "I've never felt this way before, and I can't explain it, but I know I'm what's best for him."

"John…" she says tiredly, pressing her fingertips into her left temple.

"I made a promise to him, Michelle," he says, nearly pleading with her at this point. She huffs a breath out of her mouth causing her blonde fringe to fly up. "Just tell me what I need to do, and I'll do it."

"You need to keep your temper in check for one thing, John Watson," she says jabbing a finger into his chest.

"Yes," he says quickly. "Yes, duly noted."

"And the most I can try to do is set you up for an interim period. That would be the best bet, and with my recommendation you could possibly be considered as a more permanent candidate over time once they figured out his proper Care Order."

"Okay. Let's do that," John nods.

"And you need to find yourself a therapist."

"I'm sorry, what?" John says frowning.

"You heard me. With your past it's bound to come up, and if you think I'm comfortable with leaving a child with a time bomb such as yourself without ordering him to work through his own issues, then you are barking."

John swallows hard, but attempts to grin at her. "You're a bit of a bully, aren't you?"

"No, John. I am extremely good at what I do," she says, her tone cutting. "Just think about what this will do to him if this doesn't work out. If _you_don't work out."

"I — I understand," John says, finally realising the gravity of the situation. The task seems daunting all of a sudden, and he stares off in the distance over Michelle's shoulder. Was he the best bet for Sherlock? This was a child, after all. Not a gold fish. He would have to take care of him, provide for him, foster his development, and most importantly nurture him like he so desperately needed. God forbid he fuck that up like_his_ father did. There were so many ways he could fail that little boy, endless ways he could compound the damage already there.

"John," Michelle's voice pulls him out of the mire of his self doubt, and she puts a hand against his cheek. "You have a big heart. No one is doubting your ability to love him. But I know what you went through better than anyone. Regardless of Sherlock, you deserve it to put the ghosts of your past to rest once and for all. Besides, he's going to need his own therapy, and it might help him to know he's not alone through the process."

John shoves his panic down and exhales. "Maybe…you're right."

She scoffs and taps his cheek smartly. "I am right, you berk."

"Michelle Dayton, everybody," John says wryly. "Right about all things."

"It's Michelle Stamford now," she smiles. "Now come on. Brave faces."

John straightens his back and smoothes the wings down on Geoffrey the bumble bee for courage. "Right."

They open the door, and find Mike sitting with Sherlock at the small fire truck table. Sherlock, for his part, is looking dubiously down at a box of crayons, worrying the removable splint around his arm with his left hand. He looks up when they come in, and his eyes tack immediately onto John with something akin to relief. He holds out his hands, and John delivers his toy safely back into waiting arms.

"How's your arm?" John says pulling up a small chair next to him.

"Itches," Sherlock says quietly. "Hurts less."

"That's good," John says. Sherlock nods and twists in his seat. He points to the x-ray film lit up on the wall.

"My bones," he says with something of a smile. John sweeps his gaze over the film, noting that it was indeed a buckle fracture to the wrist. Probably from someone twisting his arm. "Who is she?" Sherlock asks, looking to where Michelle and Mike were discussing something in low tones.

"That's Dr. Mike's wife, Michelle. She's going to ask you a few questions in a minute."

"Why isn't she in the hospital?" Sherlock says. John frowns, not sure he understands, but before he can say anything, Michelle comes over with her suitcase, and sits across from them with a smile.

"Hi," she says warmly, nodding to her husband as he leaves the room before giving her full attention to Sherlock. "My name is Michelle. Can you tell me yours?"

"Sh-Sherlock," he says.

"I like that name very much, Sherlock," Michelle says. "Did you know I have two names? Most people do. For example my name is Michelle Stamford, and you already know John Watson. Do you have two names, Sherlock?"

"I – I don't know," he says little face pinching in distress. His good hand grips onto the stuffed bee hard.

"It's all right. You're not in trouble if you don't know," Michelle says softly.

Sherlock looks in between John and Michelle. "I'm not?"

"Of course not, sweetheart. Do you usually get in trouble for not knowing things?"

He presses his lips together, and gives a frightened little nod. "I'm supposed to know things," he finally whispers.

"Can you tell me what that means, Sherlock?" Michelle prods gently.

Sherlock makes a little noise in the back of his throat, but he screws up his face in determination. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to find the words that seemed to cause him pain. Finally he looks up from searching the table top, but instead of looking at Michelle, his eyes light on John.

"My father says I'm special. He says I'm a good storyteller because I am the only one who can read them. Sometimes I have to come along with my father and Mister Hope so I can read the stories," Sherlock says, gaze never leaving John's.

"What stories, sweetheart?" Michelle says, and he finally looks at her.

"People stories."

"I don't —" Michelle starts, but Sherlock shakes his head, bringing a finger up to his lips, and she quiets. He tilts his head to the side, and he frowns, searching her face before he leans over the table and tentatively takes one of her hands. He turns it over palm up and his little fingers touch her wrist where a tattoo has been inked into her skin in cursive.

"Rachel," Sherlock says, reading the simple black word written there. "She used to be your daughter. But she died."

Michelle gasps her eyes going wide, the colour draining from her face, and John fixes Sherlock with an astonished look.

"How did you know that?" she says, her voice coiling tight as the words rasp out of her.

"Her name is there forever so you can look at it when you are sad," Sherlock says, stroking his finger over the letters. He moves from her wrist over her palm until he reaches her wedding ring and he strokes the metal band. "You are sad a lot." He looks up at her, narrowing his gaze. "She never got to be a real daughter because she died in your tummy."

"Yes, that's right," Michelle says, tears welling in her eyes as she looks at the little boy before her.

"It's okay to be sad," Sherlock says patting her hand, and Michelle nods, a tear escaping from the corner of her eye. "Dr. Mike is sad too, see?" He points to her wedding ring again. "His isn't shiny either. See?" She touches the battered band with her thumb, frowning, pain lancing across her face. Sherlock plays with her fingers for a moment before looking back up. "You don't have to keep it a secret."

"Keep what a secret?" she says holding his little hand, thumb stroking over the back of his.

Slowly, Sherlock reaches up with his splinted arm and puts his fingers against her temple, smoothing back some of her hair as he stares at it.

"The hurt in your head," he sighs sadly. "You can tell him. He's a doctor and doctors make things better," Sherlock says, and rubs her head one more time before sitting back down in his seat.

Michelle puts a hand over her mouth trying to trap the sudden sob threatening to escape, closing her eyes for a moment to compose herself. Silent tears were running down her face in earnest now, and she brushes them away after a moment before clearing her throat. John's heart aches at the sight, and he looks away, something like guilt beginning to curl around his gut.

"Is – is that what you mean by people stories?" she asks him, her voice a little stronger.

"Yes," Sherlock says closing his eyes. "I'm the only one who can see them. I can tell when people are lying, and – and what makes them cry."

"That's what they would use you for?" Michelle says, horror beginning to dawn over her expression.

Sherlock, eyes still closed, draws his knees up to his chest and nods before dipping his head down into the cover of darkness. "I don't want any more questions," comes the muffled response.

"Okay, sweetheart. We'll take a break," Michelle says looking for all the world like she needed one too. She swipes at her eyes again, and gets up to get some water, filling one of the paper cups near the sink. John follows her.

"Michelle…" he starts, already at a loss, his mind still reeling from the knowledge Sherlock just imparted. She shakes her head, turning on the sink for her second cup of water. "Why didn't you tell me you and Mike were having trouble after…?"

"Doesn't matter," she says, hand shaking as she goes to bring the cup up to her lips. John intercepts her hand, and looks into her face. _Really_looks.

God he had been so selfish. Here was his oldest friend, pale and wan with dark circles under her eyes, her hair in disarray — _clearly not all right,_ and where the hell was he? Throwing a massive pity party for himself this past year. She squeezes her eyes shut and presses her fingers into her temple again, swaying lightly as if dizzy.

"What's going on, Michelle?" John says slowly, concern creeping into his voice as he steadies her by the elbow.

She lowers her hand shrugging out of his grasp, and turns away from him, gripping the counter. "Incredible," she finally murmurs flatly, "he is truly incredible."

"_Michelle._ Answer me," John insists.

"God, John!" she hisses, abruptly whipping around to him. "How can he — I've not told _anyone!_ No one — no one knows, but he's right, oh god!"

"Hey, hey, hey," John says grounding her with firm hands on her shoulders. "Just calm down and tell me what it is, and then we'll get it sorted, all right? What are you talking about?"

She brings a shaking hand up to her temple again, and takes a deep breath, tears threatening to break free again.

"I went in for a scan a few weeks ago. Headaches, you know?" she says defeated. "Turns out I've got an aneurysm up here."

"Oh my god," John says, the air whooshing out of him as if punched in the chest. "Is it operable? Can they patch it for you?"

"I don't know. I – I haven't made the appointment for the follow up."

"Why the bloody hell not?!" he says, volume rising.

She shrugs listlessly. "I didn't see the point."

"Jesus," John says wiping a hand over his face and turning away from her for a moment. Something else Sherlock said finally clicks, and he closes his eyes. "Does Mike know?"

"No. No one does. Shit," she says, huffing out a breath that is a mixture of a sob and a laugh.

"You need to tell him."

"Don't you think I know that?"

"Goddammit, I'm serious, Mich," John says rounding on her. "You tell him, or I will."

Michelle purses her lips in contrition. "I was going to," she says in a small voice. "I will. I promise. I just needed to…to get my head around it."

John huffs a long breath out of his nose, glaring at her before nodding. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I – I want to be there for you more. For you both. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she says. "Christ. Aren't we a pair?"

John smiles briefly, before something occurs to him, and he looks over to where they left Sherlock. Only to find the chair devoid of one little boy.

"Sherlock?" John says, voice pitched high in alarm and he crosses the room in two easy strides. The small whimper emitting from under the table would have been lost on him had he not been listening so intently. He drops to a crouch and relief floods over him when he spots the trembling mass curled in tight on himself.

He gentles his voice, "Sherlock. I'm sorry – we're both sorry," he says when Michelle crouches likewise next to him.

"You are a very brave little boy, Sherlock," Michelle says scooting closer on her knees. "And I am sorry if I frightened you. It must be a lot; seeing all of those stories."

Sherlock stills, and after a moment nods, his face buried against his knees again. "It never stops."

"I know, sweetheart. Can you come here, please? Can you come out for John?" Michelle says.

The blue eyes peek out from their hiding, and John holds out his hand. Sherlock considers it for a second, and slowly unfolds himself. John helps him out and upright, steady hands grasping his thin waist as he looks into his pale face.

"Not mad?" Sherlock whispers.

"Never. Not leaving, remember?" John says tugging lightly at the scarf around Sherlock's neck.

"Okay," Sherlock breathes. John smiles, and pulls up one of the chairs, hefting Sherlock into his lap. The little boy instantly snuggles into his side, seemingly spent, his head resting against John's chest as he fiddles with his splint. John takes to rubbing his back again, and Sherlock sighs softly.

After a few minutes of simply taking a breather, Michelle finally scoots up next to them with a pad of paper and a pen in one hand, and in the other a small little boy doll that for all intents and purposes, John knew to be anatomically correct.

"All right, Sherlock. Just a few more questions," she says, and Sherlock tenses. "You don't have to answer me, you just have to show me with this doll, okay?"

Sherlock takes the doll in his hands and stares down at it. He nods haltingly, looking up at John. John gives him a soft smile, and Sherlock turns back to Michelle.

"You're doing really well, Sherlock," Michelle says and smiles at him. She clears her throat. "I want you to show me all the places where somebody hurt you. You just have to point and I will take care of the rest."

Sherlock's hands clutch the doll impossibly tight, and his breathing starts coming in short little bursts as he begins to hyperventilate.

"Hey, hey," John says easing Sherlock's grip. "You'll want to be careful with you arm there."

Sherlock gazes at him with big glassy eyes, and he wiggles his little fingers in the splint. He bites his lip, a mixture of fear and determination on his face before he pushes the doll away from him and into John's hands. Michelle goes to encourage him again, but John stops her, and simply holds the doll in front of him.

After a moment, Sherlock points at the right arm of the doll.

"Good, good," Michelle says noting it on her pad.

Sherlock reaches out and points at the right leg of the doll, and Michelle writes it down. He snatches his hand back and brings the end of the scarf up to his face.

"What about before today?" Michelle asks gently.

Sherlock whines a little, but still reaches out, a finger tapping the doll's stomach. Then, with a bit more courage, he touches the doll's head, then knee, then face, and finally he grips the doll around the throat and squeezes. John takes a fortifying breath, and runs a hand through Sherlock's hair.

"You're so brave, Sherlock," Michelle says, and her eyes flash up to John's. He swallows hard, knowing what comes next. "One more question, sweetheart. Did anybody try to hurt you by taking your clothes off?"

"Tried one time," Sherlock says, voice hitching over the words. "A ma – man. Father got angry and hurt him worser. Nev – er saw him again."

"But no other times?" Michelle says, making sure.

"I'm not supposed to say any more!" Sherlock says, composure breaking, a few errant tears trickling down his flushed cheeks. He pulls at the front of John's jumper. "Don't want any more questions, John. Please."

John sets the doll back on the table, and scoops Sherlock up into a proper embrace trying to shush him with little soothing noises. He rocks him gently against his chest as great sobs over took him, coming out in little bursts as he desperately tries to shutter them away.

"Are we done?" John snaps at Michelle. She levels a look at him, but closes her note pad and gets to her feet.

"Almost," she says just as Mike enters the room with a paper bag.

"Ah, poor little fellow," Mike says sympathetically and pulls out three kid-sized shirts. "I was just guessing on the fit, but he's a bit small so hopefully these will work. I didn't have many options." He lays them down on the exam table, one by one with corresponding trousers for each.

"Sherlock," John says gently. "Let me see you. Let me see those eyes, come on." Sherlock takes a few heaving breaths, his small frame shaking before he raises his head and looks at him. "Ah. There you are," he says wiping his tears. He tugs his chin. "Let's go see what Dr. Mike's got for you, yeah?"

Sherlock nods wiping his nose with the back of his good hand, his chin continuing to tremble. John gets to his feet and carries him over to the exam table and shows Sherlock the clothes. Each shirt was a different colour and had a cartoonish design on the front. The blue and green one each featured either a monster truck or a school of fish, but the red one had a picture of a dinosaur skeleton grinning back at them. It was no surprise which one Sherlock was instantly drawn to.

"T-rex," he says pointing down at the red one. "They have bones like us, and people find them by digging."

"That's correct. Do you want to wear that one now, or one of your other ones?" John asks glancing up a Michelle as she pulls a digital camera out of her bag. Sherlock looks at him confused for a moment.

"They're…mine?"

"Yep."

"For to keep?" Sherlock clarifies.

"Of course," John says again, and Sherlock looks back at the shirts regarding them more seriously as if he were making an extremely vital decision. John wonders if this has been the most he's ever been able to decide for himself, and the thought makes him sad. Finally Sherlock does point to the red on, and John nods setting him down on the table. "Do you remember how we took a picture of your arm?"

"Yes," Sherlock says fingers smoothing down the fabric of the red t-shirt almost reverently.

"We need to get a few more pictures of you and then we'll be all done. Is that okay?" John says. Michelle turns on the camera and stands quietly next to her husband as they look on.

"Why?" Sherlock asks.

"So Michelle can have them so you won't have to tell anyone else about your hurts," John says. Directness seemed to work best with the little boy who could see everything.

Sherlock nods a little mulling everything over, he looks around, cataloguing the people in the room, blue eyes lighting on John again. "Okay."

John gives him a proud smile, and brushes some hair out of his eyes. "Arms up," he instructs and pulls the overlarge shirt and the scarf over his head. Michelle comes over and tells him to keep his arms out so she could snap photos of his bruises, being as quick and efficient as possible.

John grabs the red dinosaur top, and slips it over that nest of dark curls, laughing as his head pops through like a gopher. He tells Sherlock as much, and watches as he presses his lips together trying not to smile. He helps him get his arms through the sleeves, and then instructs him to stand on the table with his hands on the tops of John's shoulders for balance. He unfastens the tattered trousers, and has a pair of fresh ones for him to step into, noticing he wasn't wearing any underwear underneath and making a mental note to get some later. He buttons the denims finally, frowning at the fact that they were still a bit too big on him. He was much too skinny.

"I'm going to have to start calling _you_ Bones before too long," he mutters, eyes sweeping over Sherlock standing on the table running his hands over the front of his shirt in slow repetitive motions, as if something as simple as new clothes was the best present in the world. He swallows tightly, and reaches out and tugs Sherlock towards him. He looks at Michelle and goes to ask her, but she cuts him off with an understanding nod. He breathes out a shaky breath, turning back to look into Sherlock's bright eyes. "Sherlock…how would you like to go home?"

Sherlock blanches, suddenly terrified, eyes growing to the size of saucers. "I — Mister Hope, he — he —"

John curses himself for being an idiot. "No! No, it's okay! I meant home with — _Sherlock_ look at me — you are never going back there, do you understand?" He grips his thin shoulders in a steady warm pressure, stroking with his thumbs.

"Never?" he says, face pale and anxiously hopeful.

"As long as I'm alive," John promises fervently. "Earlier, I meant how would you like to go home with…me?"

Sherlock looks at him, searching his face, eyes welling up with tears as he processes what John just said, realisation creeping bit by bit into his expression. John gives him a quavering smile, feeling his own eyes prickle at the corners. Finally Sherlock seems to understand, and his face crumples. He pulls in a sharp half-sob flinging his arms around John's neck.

"Oh y-yes, please! Please, John," he says burying his face into John's neck. "W-want to go home with you, please."

John's heart breaks a little, and he cups the back of Sherlock's head and tries to comfort the poor boy who's obviously wrung way past his limit given the level of emotional upheaval he's been subjected to in the past few hours.

"John," Michelle says softly from behind him, and he turns slightly, Sherlock still in his arms.

"The Inspector is here. You can't leave just yet, and I need to talk to them about setting you up for an eight week Interim."

John growls in agitation. "Can't they wait? Hasn't he been through enough already?"

"It's out of my hands. He's a potential witness, John," Michelle says, her expression conflicted.

"All right, but you tell them I'm going to be there when they talk to him, and not a second before I've got him to eat and drink a little something first," he says firmly.

Michelle nods. "Mike and I will let them know." They make their way out of the room, closing the door silently behind them.

John sighs, and carries Sherlock over to the chair and sits down with him still clinging tightly to his front.

He turns his head and whispers into his ear, "Everything's going to be okay, little one. I promise, I promise…"

He wills the words to be true, vowing his hardest to protect Sherlock with everything he can from here on out.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: The enthusiasm I've received from you all has really pushed me to get this newest chapter up. I am really excited about this chapter because it's in Sherlock's POV. I have been writing Sherlock for a while now, but this is the first time I've written through the eyes of a child, and specifically child Sherlock, so I hope you all like it.**

**Disclaimer: I've done research on child protective services but it is basic at best as well as my research on police conduct. So...if there are glaring contradiction please forgive them. Cheers!**

**xxHoney.**

* * *

The light above him was buzzing again.

It sounded like a mosquito, and if he thought about it hard enough, he could almost picture the creature hovering around his ear, tiny wings beating against his eardrum.

Sherlock turns his head and presses his other ear into John's chest, switching sides so he could give his other one a break. He really wants to cover both ears and close his eyes, but he doesn't because he wants John to think he's brave. Sherlock likes the idea of being brave…like a soldier. John was a soldier, and he fought bad men far away and got hurt real bad, but he got better, and now he is going to make Sherlock better too. Yes, he wanted to be good and brave and strong like John. He takes a big breath, and raises his head.

"All right there, Bones?" John says, tapping the picture of the dinosaur T-rex on his shirt with a smile. Sherlock tries to smile back, but his heart is still heavy and it makes the corners of his mouth feel heavy too, pulling them down. He didn't even know if your heart could do that but that's what he feels. He wonders if his heart makes a different noise when it's heavy, and wishes he could listen with Dr. Mike's stef-o-cope again. He wonders if John's heart gets heavy like his does, and if the heavy things eventually go away, and when, because sometimes it makes his tummy hurt, and makes him want to cry and he doesn't like crying because crying is not being very brave at all.

The buzzing starts up again suddenly, and Sherlock winces and covers his ears. It sounds too loud because he keeps forgetting about it and then when he stops thinking about being brave, or the heaviness in his chest he remembers it again. His eyes flicker up to it.

"The light bulb bothering you?" John asks, following his gaze.

"It's like a mosquito," Sherlock says, lowering his hands.

"Hang on a tic," John says and sets him on the ground. He goes over to the set of switches on the wall and flips one. Half of the light bulbs turn off while the rest stay on, and the buzzing stops. "Better?"

Sherlock nods, sticking a finger into the splint around his arm. It's itchy, and feels like the buzzing sounds, only against his skin this time instead of his ears. But his arm really does feel better. John comes over to him and kneels.

"I know I said we were done with questions, but there are going to be a couple of people from the police coming to ask you a few more."

"The police?" Sherlock says. "Am I in trouble?"

"No, of course not," John says and frames his waist with his hands pulling Sherlock closer. Sherlock puts his good hand on John's forearm, completing the circuit. John looks at him seriously. "I want you to know that what ever the case, what ever questions they ask you, I'm going to be right by your side, all right?"

"All right," Sherlock says quietly. "What if — what if I don't know the answers?"

"Then that's just fine. You don't need to know all the answers," John assures.

Sherlock frowns. That was the second time someone told him he _wouldn't_ get in trouble for Not Knowing. It didn't make sense. That's what he was there for, was to _see._ There was always things to see, things to Know. Everybody had Stories like chapters in a book and he was the only one who could read them because he was special. He didn't feel like he was special, though. Especially when he used Knowing to hurt people. He felt terrible then, like a small bug that deserved to be crushed. His stomach clenches uncomfortably, and he bites his lip as he pictures himself shrinking down farther and farther until he was the size of an ant.

"Sherlock," John says gently, and Sherlock looks up at him blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears away.

"I'll be brave, John. W-want to be brave," Sherlock says. John smiles at him again and Sherlock feels a little better.

"Come here," he says and Sherlock goes willingly into his embrace liking the way John smells like warm things, good things, clean and a little bit like scones and lemon. He likes the feeling of John's jumper — a little scratchy — under his cheek, and his warm arms around him. When he talks, he can feel his voice rumble in his chest and it reminds him of the thunder when it rains early in the mornings before everyone is awake and the light outside is soft.

"You are already the bravest person I know," he says.

"Really?" Sherlock whispers, and John cards his fingers through the hair on his head. It feels nice.

"_Really,_ really."

"Knock, knock," Michelle says coming into the room with a little white box. John stands, and pulls Sherlock against him, a hand on his head maintaining contact. Sherlock wraps his arm around his leg as he looks up at her shyly, and she smiles at him. She smiles a lot, but her smiles don't really smile. They are sad smiles, and Sherlock made her cry, and all at once he feels like a bug again. He presses his face into John's thigh.

"Oh, Michelle. Good," John says taking the box from her. He pops open the lid.

"I just got what ever was in the canteen," Michelle says. "Hope that's all right?"

"No it's perfect. Come here, Sherlock," John says leading him back to the shiny red table. Sherlock sits in one of the wooden chairs that's meant to look like a fire man, and watches as John takes out a sandwich, an apple, and a carton of milk out of the box and proceeds to set everything in front of him. Sherlock's guts squirm as he looks down at the food and back up to John.

John regards him, and after a moment unwraps the sandwich from its plastic. "It's a turkey sandwich," John says taking a seat in the bigger chair next to him. He takes a bite, and hums a little, holding it back out to Sherlock. He takes it tentatively. "See? Not poison."

Sherlock stares down at the sandwich, his palms going sweaty and making his splint itch even more. John says it's not poison. It's not, and Sherlock trusts John.

_We're going to play a little game, Sherlock. It's called chess…_

He looks back up to John, his heart beating fast as the memory swims to the surface. But he's not looking, he's talking to Michelle, and they are busy looking at some papers she has in her hands, and Sherlock feels like he is falling.

_There's only one move._

Sherlock blinks, trying to clear the twisted cruel face of Mister Hope from his head.

_Did I give you your medicine? Or did I give you the poison? Come Sherlock, you have to pick one. A growing boy needs his medicine._

It's _not_ poison. It's not, it's not, it's not.

_Did I give you the good pill or the bad pill? — No don't look away, you little shit, how are you ever going to learn anything —?_

"Sherlock," John's voice interrupts his bad thoughts making him jump. "It's okay, you can eat."

"I'm not hungry," he says even though his stomach cramps painfully. John looks at him carefully, and then back to the sandwich in his hands.

"You need to eat, Bones," John says opening the carton of milk and setting it down in front of him again. Sherlock looks down at the sandwich and not wanting to disappoint John, takes an enormous bite. The textures in his mouth clash, the slippery meat and the greasy cheese making his stomach flip, but he swallows it down. He takes a shaky breath, and goes to take another bite, but John stops him. "Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says. He feels ashamed when he feels the dampness on his cheeks from his tears.

"Can you tell us what's wrong, sweetheart?" Michelle asks taking the now-mangled sandwich from his hands. Sherlock looks at her not able to meet John's gaze.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before figuring out how to answer. "Taste. It's too many – too many flavours." He wrinkles his nose. He didn't know how else to say it.

Michelle looks puzzled, but John makes a noise of understanding. "I think I know…" John says taking the sandwich and disassembling it into separate components. To Michelle he says, "I think he's easily overwhelmed with too much stimulation." He hands Sherlock a piece of bread. "Try this, and if you feel better maybe you can move on to the tomato?"

Sherlock takes the bread and nibbles on the corner. It's got bits in the crust, oats he realises, and he finds that he likes it and it stops the aching hollow feeling in his tummy. He takes a bigger bite, and John smiles proudly at him before turning back to Michelle.

"We're doing things a bit out of order, pushing the bureaucratic circus to move as fast as they can. Sergeant Donovan assured me they have already filed the emergency protection order for him, and I've talked with my boss and we were able to forego the headache of an official referral given the circumstances. He agrees with me that you're the best candidate for Interim, being a doctor with a stable income like you are. The conference will take place later instead of before, and my guess is that's also where they will want to draw up a plan for his permanent Care Order."

"All right," John says rubbing the back of his neck.

"It sounds like a lot to contend with when put that way, but all you've got to do is keep doing what you're doing." Sherlock watches as Michelle reaches out and puts her hand on John's arm. John breathes out a big breath. "John. There's still time to — I mean, if you aren't —"

"No," John says cutting her off swiftly. "If you are about to ask me if I'm sure, I'm telling you right now I've never been more certain in my life."

"Okay. I'm not doubting, I'm just making sure," Michelle says and removes her hand. Sherlock wonders why she looks at John the way she does — like sad and happy and guilty all at the same time — until he remembers her dirty wedding ring and the fact that her smiles aren't really smiles. He looks down, not wanting to read her Story anymore, and tries to eat as much as he can of the other slice of bread even though his tummy is feeling swimmy again. He manages two more bites before his eyes blur, and he suddenly feels really tired.

He pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, resting his cheek against the tops of his knees. He closes his eyes as he listens to Michelle and John talk back and forth, his body feeling heavy, but not wanting to go all the way asleep.

He doesn't know how much time passes, but the next thing he's aware of is John's hand is in his hair again, and he is murmuring something softly to him. He can't make his eyes open all the way, but he tries to keep them from closing as hard as possible because John is smiling at him like he is the best thing ever.

"Sherlock," John says quietly, hand coming to rest on the back of his neck, thumb stroking a little pattern. Sherlock's eyes slip closed again. "Michelle, is there really no other way they couldn't postpone this ordeal? He's hardly eaten and has had enough, clearly."

"The issue is time-sensitive, John."

"The bloke's not going anywhere, right? What's the rush?" John says, and rouses Sherlock again so he could pick him up.

Sherlock blinks up at him sleepily, but raises his arms and curls into John's broad chest the moment he is lifted up. His tummy gives another lurch and he whimpers quietly, trying not to make any noise and turning his face away from the lights.

"It's out of my hands. They won't tell me any more," Michelle says. She rubs Sherlock's back, and he peeks out at her. She holds out Geoffrey to him with a sad smile, and Sherlock takes him and cuddles him close brushing one of his antennas against his lips.

"Bastards," John says deep in his chest, and Sherlock thinks of thunder again, only this time it is like night-time thunder with flashes of lightening, powerful and scary. Sherlock is oddly comforted by it.

_"John."_

"Well they are."

"Language. You have to think about these things now," Michelle frets. "Mike's gone ahead and set them up in his private office for you."

"Fine. The quicker we get this over with, the quicker I can get Sherlock home," John says and follows Michelle out of the exam room.

Sherlock perks up a little on the way to Dr. Mike's office at hearing this. He likes the sound of that just as much as John does. Going home. Home with John. Never back to Mister Hope ever, ever again _ever._ He sighs, kissing the top of Geoffrey's head trying not to let John's swaying steps make him sleepy again as he carries him down a corridor.

"I'll be out here when you're finished," Michelle says before they enter the room. Sherlock feels John nod, and he hugs Geoffrey even tighter, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Hello, there," a gruff voice greets them, and Sherlock holds his breath. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, and this is my Sergeant, Sally Donovan. You must be Dr. Watson."

"I don't care if you're the Queen at this point, mate," John says tersely, but shakes hands with the man anyway.

"I understand you're the lad's guardian for now?" the voice belonging to Lestrade says, and Sherlock turns his face again into the base of John's throat.

"That's right." John cups the back of his head, and Sherlock feels a bit more secure and like he can breathe again. He lets out a few gusty breaths and tells himself that when he opens his eyes he absolutely will not cry.

"That's all well and good, but surely you won't mind if we hand Sherlock over to an officially appointed Children's Guardian when it comes to matters of our investigation?"

Breathing becomes difficult again when Sherlock hears this, but John says, "I _absolutely_ mind. He is completely scared and unwell, and given the fact that you simply cannot postpone traumatising him even more, I should think you could spare him having to be handled by another stranger."

"Ah, well Michelle said you'd say that," Lestrade says a bit more gently. "But I do have someone who should be here shortly, and I am assuming I won't have to make you sign a gag order or anything like that. This is an extremely sensitive case you are now going to be privy to."

"All I care about is right here, Inspector," John says and hitches Sherlock a bit higher.

"I understand. And call me Greg, and thanks for being so agreeable. I wouldn't do this if it weren't necessary," he says. The sound of the door opening again startles Sherlock, but despite himself, his curiosity causes him to peek out to the side. "Ah there she is. John this is Miss Hooper:_guardian ad litem._ She's worked in relation with the Met before, and she's the best I know."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Hooper."

"Molly, please," she says politely, and she shakes John's hand also. Her jumper is very colourful and has the picture of a dog on it. A _dach_-shund. Sherlock knows this because from his old room at Mister Hope's house he would watch the woman with the short blonde hair walk her dog every morning and her dog looked like that. Molly catches him peering at her, and she waves at him by crooking her index finger a few times. He hesitates for a moment but does the same, and she smiles.

Sherlock decides he likes her smiles more than Michelle's because they are honest like John's. He can tell by her Story that she is sad too, but when she smiles at him she means it.

"You must be Sherlock," she says to him, and Sherlock nods. "It's all a bit scary, isn't it? All these new people."

"I'm trying to be brave," Sherlock tells her, and she smiles with her lips, and Sherlock likes this smile too because it's like a secret smile just for him.

"I can tell. You are doing a very, very good job," she says whispering, and he tries to smile back at her when she touches the tip of his nose with one finger. He finally has the courage to sit back from John at this point, and he looks around the new room they are in. There's not much to notice about this room but there is a window, and Sherlock can see that they are high up, higher than Mister Hope's house, and it is fascinating.

"Right, well now that everyone's here, don't you think we should get started, Inspector?"

Sherlock turns at the sound of the new voice and sees that it belongs to another woman with curly black hair and dark skin. She's standing next to the police man named Greg and Sherlock remembers that her name is Sally.

She's not smiling when her gaze snaps to his. In fact her face is doing the opposite and Sherlock can tell she's upset by something. Someone, if he looks closer. Someone said a mean thing to her before she got here, and she doesn't want to be next to Greg anymore. Sherlock can tell because she called him by his important name and not by Greg like he asked John to, and when she did Greg looked surprised.

Sherlock feels a little woozy after the Knowing stops, and he tips backwards for a moment in John's arms, good arm shooting out to grab a fistful of John's jumper at the sudden loss in balance.

"Hey? All right?" John murmurs as he draws him back against his chest for a moment before looking down into his face. Sherlock's head is swimming, and his tummy is writhing again, but he nods to show that he's strong and not scared.

"Yeah, okay let's go ahead now," Lestrade says motioning for them to sit around a small folding table that's been provided for them.

John takes a chair, and adjusts them so Sherlock is sitting comfortably in his lap as Lestrade and Sally sit across from him, and Molly hangs back pulling out a notebook.

"I will be recording this for posterity, just so you know." Lestrade says more for John's benefit than anything else. He nods stiffly, and grips Sherlock's sides securely. A small device is pulled out of Sally's brief case, tested a few times, and then set in the centre of the table. "Will everybody present please go about the room and state their names for the record?"

"Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan."

"Madeline Hooper."

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," the DI says and nods twice in John's direction.

"Doctor John Watson, and Sherlock."

"Very good," Lestrade says leaning forward and taking out a pen and paper. "So Sherlock…I'm going to ask you a few questions and you just do the best you can and answer as best as you know how, okay?"

Sherlock looks up at John, and John nods encouragingly at him. He looks back to Greg Lestrade and takes a big breath.

"Okay."

"There's a lad," Lestrade says and smiles kindly at him. Sherlock can tell there is something off about his smiles too, but it's not dishonest, just tired. "Now can you tell me, do you know who Mr. Hope is?"

"Yes," Sherlock says biting his lip for a moment to keep it from trembling. "I live with him."

"How long have you lived with him?"

"A long, long time. Almost forever," Sherlock says in a hushed voice. He has to remember that he never has to go back there to keep his breathing steady. Lestrade nods solemnly.

"Do you remember who you lived with before you came to live with Mr. Hope?"

Sherlock tries to concentrate. "It was a big, big house," he starts, a memory of him sitting on a plush rug and looking up at the many stairs above him. There was a nice woman who spoke a different language — _Mon petit cheri_ — that came and picked him up and carried him to the gardens. He got stung by a bee that day, and when he cried he asked for his Father he was smacked across the face and told to be quiet because — _Daddy's working, Sherlock. Stop being a nuisance or I will give you something to cry about._

"Who's house was it?" Lestrade prods gently, and Sherlock snaps out of the memory.

"My – my Father's house," Sherlock says tears threatening him again, but he hugs Geoffrey closer and feels a little braver. "We didn't stay there long because Father needed to hide and that's why I went with Mister Hope."

"Do you know your father's name?"

Sherlock searched his memory but for the life of him he couldn't recall ever knowing the man as anything but Father.

"I don't — I don't —"

"It's okay, sport," Lestrade says giving him another kind smile, and John rubs his back. "Did you ever have a Mummy, Sherlock?"

"A Mummy?" Sherlock says. He remembers reading about nice ladies who love their little boys and sing them songs before bed and give them kisses. He never had anyone sing him songs before bed, or read him stories, or give him warm milk and honey if he was scared. He made the mistake of asking Mister Hope one time why he didn't have one, and all he got was a cuff around the ear. —_Because who would want a useless little thing like you? Now stop asking stupid questions_ —

"No. I don't have a Mummy." He wipes the back of his good hand against his cheek, not noticing that he was crying.

"Sherlock…do you know that Mr. Hope is a bad man?" Lestrade asks softly.

"Oh yes," Sherlock says nodding slowly. "He is a very bad man. I don't like him."

"Do you know that Mr. Hope has hurt people?"

"I —" Sherlock slams his eyes shut. "Yes."

"Did he ever hurt them in front of you?" Lestrade presses.

_Keep your eyes open you little bastard!_

Sherlock's eyes fly open as the bad thoughts come in like a flood. "I —"

_This is what dying looks like. See? You best remember that if I ever catch you talking to anyone ever again, is that clear?_

"Sherlock?" the DI says.

"I'm not su – supposed to s-say!" he says, icy fear locking him in place. John's hands rub up and down his arms as he shivers, but Sherlock can hardly feel it.

"Listen to me," Sally Donovon says, her sharp voice startling him. "He can't hurt you. He's locked up and is staying there for a very long time. Understand?"

A sob escapes him, and he feels like a failure, but he nods anyway.

Molly comes over to crouch beside him and she cups his cheek. "It's all right, Sherlock. You are absolutely safe. No one is going to hurt you. Tell us?"

Sherlock looks back at the police man with the kind face and sucks in a stuttering gasp. "I hurt them too!" he nearly wails. "I'm sorry I didn't mean to! I — he said he would hurt me if I didn't do the Stories and I didn't want to end up like the people who didn't take their good medicine!"

"What medicine?" Lestrade says intently, brows coming together.

"Two pills. A good medicine and a bad medicine. He would have me choose sometimes when I was bad like it was a game. I had to pick the good medicine because the bad one was poison. He made me do it when I wouldn't do the Stories the first time," Sherlock says, the words rushing out of his mouth and making him feel sick. John behind him gasps in horror, and Sherlock _wishes_ he was a bug now because he deserved to be squashed for being so scared and weak.

"What are 'stories', Sherlock?" Lestrade says.

"It's what I see when I look at people," he says not able to stop the words from coming anymore. He trembles as the information bombards him. "You are married but you left your ring off because you are mad at her because she said a mean thing to you, and Sally is sad too because someone said a mean thing to her and now she won't look at you or call you Greg like you are friends anymore. But Sally is only pretending to be mad at you because she likes you the way girls and boys like each other but she isn't your wife and sometimes you don't want your wife to be your wife anymore because you like somebody else but you feel guilty and — and —"

It was all there swirling in front of him like water colours, making his head hurt and it just kept coming, and endless torrent of Knowing. He felt like he was underwater, and he couldn't get any air.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John's voice comes to him sounding far away, and Sherlock can't make himself stop shaking. He's dimly aware of being turned around in John's embrace and he weakly wraps his good arm tight around his neck. "You need to breathe for me, all right? Deep breaths, give it a try, love."

Finally, a creaking gasp breaks past his lips, and he still can't keep the words in because he had to tell John that he didn't mean to, he had to make him understand so he wouldn't want to send him back.

"He – he ma-made me read them, John! He made me see what made them sad and angry and h-ow to make them do what Mister Hope said and so I told him because I didn't want to take the bad medicine because I was afraid, and I am so-sorry, please! Please don't send me away, I d-didn't mean to!" Sherlock says giving himself over to the fear at being abandoned because how could John want him now?

"Turn that bloody thing off!" John nearly shouts, and Lestrade snatches the recording device, and jabs the stop button.

"Christ!" Lestrade says staring slack-jawed at Sally, who averts her gaze, and adjusts her collar.

"Sherlock look at me, look at me," John says easing Sherlock back and feverishly brushing his hair away from his eyes. "Slow down, you're going to make yourself sick. That's it, deep breaths. I am _not_ sending you away, how could you even think that?"

"N-not very br-ave," Sherlock says through hitching sobs. "My – my fa-fault."

John closes his eyes at this, and when he opens them again they sparkle with his own tears. "Oh, _Sherlock,"_ he says and kisses him on the forehead, holding him against his lips for a moment to compose himself before kissing him again. "You are so, so brave, and don't you think for one second any of that was your fault. All right?"

Sherlock, completely overwhelmed and not really understanding, nods regardless and continues to cry doing his best to muffle it.

Lestrade clears his throat. "I, erm, I still need to —"

"No, you don't," John bites out and gets to his feet, cradling Sherlock protectively against him. "You're done."

"I understand he's upset but I need to get him to make a positive ID —"

"Sod the fuck off, Lestrade. You've bloody done enough. I'm taking him home," John growls, making for the door.

"Dr. Watson," Donovan starts, but it's Molly's hand on his arm that gets him to stop.

"I know it's been hard on him," she says, and John scoffs. She presses on, "but the police need something concrete to prevent Hope from making bail. And Sherlock is the only one who can give them that."

John huffs an impatient breath, arms tightening slightly around Sherlock. Sherlock shivers, and tries to burrow deeper into John's jumper.

"One positive ID, and our case goes from circumstantial to having a witness that places him at the scene. It's all we need to hold the bastard," Lestrade says.

"Damn it," John mutters, then: "Sherlock. Inspector Lestrade needs to ask you one more thing. Can you be brave one more time for me?"

Sherlock, feeling strange and float-y manages to sit up a little. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand and looks at Lestrade. "Okay."

Lestrade gives him a weary smile, and gathers up his bumble bee up from where it fell to the floor. Sergeant Donovan follows him with a folder of some sort.

"Here you go, sport," Lestrade says, and Sherlock takes the bee, pressing it to his face. He just wanted to hide some place and never come out. "I know you're tired and you've been so helpful. Because of you, Mr. Hope will never be able to hurt people again."

"He won't?" Sherlock says.

"Nope. All you have to do is look at the photos that Sally has and point to the people you recognise. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispers.

Sally comes over and shows him a picture with a whole bunch of faces on it. After a moment, he scrubs his eyes and points to a picture of a lady with too much jewelry, a boy older than him, a woman in a lot of pink clothes, and the most recent, a man with silver hair. His hand trembles when he points to the last one, and Sally whisks the folder away.

"You got what you came for, then?" John says folding Sherlock back into the shelter of his embrace. Sherlock can do little else but cling to him, snuffling miserably. His heart is beating fast and slow at the same time, and he closes his eyes.

"Yeah, we're done here," Lestrade says. "Dr. Watson. I appreciate your time. Your little boy there, he's helped put a murderer behind bars."

"Yeah well…" John trails off. "He's really something."

"That he is. Molly and I will be in touch. Now go ahead and get him home. Best of luck to the both of you," he says shaking John's hand one more time.

"Home?" Sherlock says lifting his head so he could look at John.

"You bet," John says, and Sherlock puts his head back down against his shoulder. He sighs when John kisses the top of his head again.

Sherlock is vaguely aware that John is talking again, but he can't concentrate on what he's saying, his head going foggy. He feels something warm being draped over him, and it smells like those good things again and safety, and he sinks into the rocking sway of John's footsteps.

He rises to the surface one last time to hear John tell the taxi driver,

"221 Baker Street, please,"

and then he tumbles down into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Sorry its been a bit on this. I have the plague. I hope you all enjoy, and the feedback I've received on this is amazing. It has quickly become dear to my heart and I am so glad to share it with all of you.**  
**xxHoney.**

* * *

John adjusts his jacket more securely around the sleeping boy in his arms, tucking it under his chin and brushing the hair back from his eyes. Even in sleep, Sherlock's face looks pinched and grey with distress, and John presses the back of his hand against his forehead. He frowns when he notices he has a slight temperature. He was going to have to start him on his antibiotics regimen first thing tomorrow with some proper food for a change.

Oh. That's right. He needed to go shopping as well. A carton of milk, toast, and a box of Wheetabix wasn't going to cut it for a growing boy. What did Sherlock even _like_ to eat anyway? He knew he was rather particular, so John imagined it was going to be a lot of trial and error, getting as much nutrients into him without overwhelming him with too many flavours or options.

Christ. They weren't even home yet, and John was already half through making a list of potential food items and other supplies he would need to pick up tomorrow, food he would never buy for himself like frozen chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs and PaediaSure nutrition shakes.

All at once, John realises how sideways his life has turned in just a few short hours. When he left that morning, he was just John Watson, former Army Doctor, bitter and estranged from society. And now he was John Watson, still a former Army Doctor and whatnot, except…now he was John Watson with a _child._ The magnitude of this was staggering, and it was just now sinking in. Jesus, he was out of his depth. Who's idea was it that he would actually be good at taking care of a child?

Panicked, he looks down at the sleeping bundle in his arms.

Sherlock snuffles lightly, and his tiny fist curls even tighter where earlier he had latched onto the front of John's jumper and never let go. His injured wrist is nestled protectively between his little body and John's chest, and he rubs his cheek against the wooly fabric of the cable-knit where he was tucked securely in the crook of John's arm. He almost coos in his sleep, a contented sigh of a sound, and John's heart aches with an overwhelming tenderness that causes his breath to catch.

Yes. His life had been tossed into the wind, arse-over-end as it were. But he wouldn't have it any other way.

The ferocity of his affection for Sherlock in that moment hits him like a freight train, and it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. The fear and doubt was still there lurking on the edges of his mind, of course, but it was muted by the sheer potency of what he felt for this extraordinary little boy that had quite literally fallen into his lap. Until this moment he was sure he had fallen in love before, but now he knows how short-sighted of him he was to think there was only one way to feel. This love was different from what he had felt prior, sure, but it was all encompassing, rare, and completely _irrevocable._

And what's more: of all the things that could have happened differently for the both of them, out of all he's been through, Sherlock actually _chose him_ right back in the end. The thought alone renders him down to his marrow.

"John?" Sherlock mumbles sleepily, his eyes heavy-lidded but open and searching.

"Hey there, Bones," John says, voice course with emotion. He tries to clear it.

"Why are you sad?" Sherlock asks, and wipes a tear from his cheek that he hadn't realised had fallen.

"No, no I'm not sad," he says, caressing his brow with his thumb. "We're almost home. Get some shuteye."

Sherlock nods, his eyes growing heavy and fluttering shut almost instantly.

John takes a deep breath and looks out the window, hardly noticing the blur of city lights flying past. London looked the same he knew, but everything, _everything_ was different. _He_ was different, and he didn't really know what all of that entailed at the moment, but for the first time in a long while he felt completely content.

"Baker Street, sir," the cabbie informs him, breaking his winding train of thought.

"Oh right. Thanks, mate," John says handing him the fare from the back seat. He carefully loops the strap of his med bag across his chest in order to have his hands free for Sherlock. It didn't require too much manoeuvring partly due to the fact that Sherlock barely weighed anything to begin with, however, John realises his dilemma when he approaches the door and has no way of getting to his keys.

He looks at the buzzers next to the door, debating whether to disturb his landlady or not. It was only nine in the evening, and he knew the chances of her being up still were probably good. He hadn't known her for very long, but she was a bit barmy and definitely a night owl. He presses the button for 221A and waits.

The door unlocks, and Mrs. Hudson peeks out with a bright smile, a kettle still in her hand having obviously been in the middle of her evening cuppa.

"John, dear what — oh my!" Mrs. Hudson says, dropping her voice to a startled whisper when she sees the sleeping boy nestled in John's arms.

"Sorry to disturb you, but as you can see, my hands are full and I didn't want to wake him," John says softly.

"No, you didn't disturb me, of course not, come get him in out of the cold the poor dear," Mrs. Hudson babbles, swinging the door open wide. "I'll get your door too, shall I?"

"That would be great," John says, and she pulls her spare set of keys out of the decorative tea pot sitting on the sideboard in the foyer. He follows her down the hall to 221's basement flat: Apartment C.

He makes it down the few steps into the sitting room before carefully dropping his med bag next to the sofa. Mrs. Hudson who was nosy by nature, followed him in of course, and instantly swoops down to pick it up so she could hang it on the peg by the door.

"I'll just go and put him down," John says, and makes his way back to the one and only bedroom.

The flat is matchbox small, so John uses the light pouring in from the main room to guide him as he gingerly lays Sherlock down on his bed, not wanting to turn on the lamp lest he wake him. He grabs the quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and tucks him in, making sure to keep the draught out. Sherlock fusses for a moment, but calms when John threads his fingers through his hair, soothing him back under. He curls on his side, blanket tight under his chin, and sighs gustily through his mouth.

John kisses the tips of his fingers, and presses it to his forehead before he makes his way back to the sitting room.

"Cup of tea for you, dear," Mrs. Hudson says handing him a mug of steaming black tea. "No sugar, right?"

"Er, yes thank you," John says taking too big of a swallow and burning the top of his mouth.

"Just this once, mind. I'm your land lady, not your housekeeper," she says, and sets about straightening the stack of mail on his small dining table. "So who is the little love?"

"He's…" John falters. _Oh. What was Sherlock to him now?_ "He's my…Sherlock," John finishes unevenly.

"Where did he come from?" Mrs. Hudson says, and John pulls out one of the chairs for her to sit so she could enjoy her own tea. He sits across from her.

"He was in a bad way, Mrs. Hudson," John begins, rubbing the rim of his mug. "I had a house call. I never get those, but I did today, and God — when I got there he was all alone and hurting. The bastard he was living with broke his arm. He was so terrified and I – I had to get him out of there…" He drops off here, not wanting to think what would have happened if no one came for him. It probably would have been days before anyone noticed. He was resourceful, given he found a way to contact a doctor, and chances are he would have set out on his own before long. And then where would he be?

"Oh my heavens," Mrs. Hudson gasps, eyes growing wide with horror. "To do that to a _child."_ She puts a hand over her mouth and tries to blink away her sudden tears. "You were right to get him out."

"Yeah," John says, the exhaustion suddenly taking its toll. He releases a shuddering breath, and the words he's kept inside pour out. "They used him — his gifts, his incredible gifts — for awful, _awful_ things. That's what I can't get past, Mrs. Hudson. The things they made him _do."_ His voice cracks, and he brings a shaking hand up to scrub his eyes.

"What did they do, John?" she says, her tone laced with a growing dread.

"Sherlock…" John starts, mouth dry. "I've never met anyone like him. He's a prodigy; and honest-to-god genius. He's only about five, but he is so smart. Scary smart. He could probably tell you all of the bones in the human body if you ask him. But it's more than just book smarts. He can read_people._ He calls it reading their 'stories'."

"Their stories?" Mrs. Hudson queries.

"Within a matter of minutes, Sherlock was able to look at me and deduce practically everything about me. He knew about the gunshot wound in my shoulder because of how I held him, and that I had been abroad because of my tan lines. And it wasn't just a herring either. He knew things, personal things, about my friend Michelle. He saw the tattoo on her wrist and was able to tell that it was the name of her stillborn daughter."

"Oh my goodness," Mrs. Hudson says, pressing her hand over her heart. "How can one little boy know all that?"

"If I hadn't witnessed it for myself, I wouldn't believe it," John says shaking his head. "The people he was with…they used his talents for their own purposes. They forced him to find leverage over certain people, and in the end killed them. Who knows what all he's seen or been subjected to?"

A sharp cry of distress suddenly rings out from the bedroom, startling the both of them. John surges to his feet, and hurries towards the hall.

"Sherlock?" he calls out as the sound of sobbing reaches him, and pushes open the door to the bedroom. The first thing he's aware of is the sour smell of sick, and he rushes to the dressing table to turn on the light so he could get a better look.

Sherlock sits trembling on the side of the bed, feet still in their trainers dangling several inches from the floor. His eyes are closed, and his face is scrunched up in a silent wail. The front of his shirt is soiled, as well as the small rug by the bed. He defaults to his familiar pose, splinted arm tucked tight against him as he gasps for air.

"It's all right," John says, stepping over the meager pool of sick, kneeling down in front of him. John puts a hand to his forehead even though it was evident he had a raging fever due to the bright patches of scarlet on his cheeks.

"M'sorry," Sherlock says, his voice thin and watery, teeth chattering as he sits there partially damp with sweat and sick. "I didn't mean to, John, I promise."

"No of course you didn't. Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?" John says. Sherlock nods, and lifts his arms so John could take off his soiled shirt. When that's off, John balls it up along with the rug and throws them both in the clothes bin to be washed later. Next he grabs an old t-shirt from the top of his wardrobe. It's the softest he owns, an old RAMC shirt he used to work out in that was well worn and a bit on the bigger side from when he had the muscle mass. It would work for now until John could get him some real pyjamas. "Arms up, again."

Sherlock does as he's told, eyes glassy as he struggles to keep them open despite his exhaustion. John slips on the shirt, and manoeuvres him like a rag doll so he could get his trousers and shoes off as well. The shirt was big to the point he was practically swimming in it, and John can't help but worry yet again over how underweight he is. He frowns and picks him up, just holding him close for a moment in attempts to soothe as he rocks from side to side rubbing circles into his back. "There. That's better, isn't it?" he murmurs, continuing to sway from hip to hip.

"Mmhm," Sherlock says into his collar, his hitching breaths beginning to smooth out. John hitches him a little higher and makes his way back out into the kitchen.

"Oh, the little love," Mrs. Hudson frets. She comes over and brushes a hand through Sherlock's sweaty hair. He peers at her from the familiar shelter under John's chin, sniffling lightly.

"I should really give him a dose now," John says, one hand shaking out Sherlock's medication from the paper bag on the table. He reads the instructions for the antibiotic and fever reducer. "Mrs. Hudson, could you make up a slice of dry toast?"

"Of course, dear. Something easy on the tum," she says and bustles about locating the bread.

John carries Sherlock to the small sofa in the sitting room, and carefully deposits him on the cushions. Even though the couch isn't big, he looks so small and fragile, positively swallowed up against the pillows, in his gown of a night shirt. John grabs the folded afghan off the back and drapes it around his shoulders, wanting to protect him from everything in that second, not just the cold.

Once he's cocooned securely in the blanket, Sherlock immediately nuzzles his face into the fleece material, a repetitive brush/slide over his lips that John watches curiously for a moment. Sherlock was extremely sensory, and seemed to find comfort in tactile sensations the most. John remembers his fuzzy bumble bee and casts about for it. He finds it on the floor next to the coffee table, and tucks it snugly into the cradle of Sherlock's arms. The little boy kisses the bee on the head, and continues to absently brush his lips against the blanket with a sleepy coo.

It is, frankly, the most endearing thing John Watson — former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; crack shot; hardened war veteran — has ever seen. His heart melts a little, and he dips his head to press a kiss into those riotous curls before setting off to find a clean flannel and the digital thermometer he kept in the bathroom.

When he comes back out, he pauses just on the threshold of the sitting room.

Mrs. Hudson is sitting on the sofa talking to Sherlock. From his position, John can't really make out the words, but he watches as she continues to stroke his hair, murmuring in low tones. She stills as Sherlock asks her something, and then dips her head so he could whisper into her ear. Mrs. Hudson's gentle expression fades into one of shock, and she looks at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

"How…?" she manages just as John enters more fully into the sitting room. She looks at him, tears glistening in her eyes, and gets to her feet.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John says warily. He looks at Sherlock who is looking at her solemnly. "Are you all right?"

"What?" she says snapping out of her reverie. She brushes a tear off her cheek, and tries to give him a warm smile. "Fine dear. I'm just going to, um —" she says flustered, motioning towards the door and cutting herself off.

"Okay," John says, concerned. She nods and smoothes down her skirt before hurrying out of the flat without another glance.

John is left baffled. _What just happened?_ He looks back down where Sherlock sighs and nibbles the corner of the toast Mrs. Hudson made for him. He wants to ask what Sherlock said to her, but given her reaction it was probably intensely personal, so he refrains, and instead sits down on the sofa.

"How's your tummy, kiddo?" John asks, and cups his chin with one hand while he gently wipes his face down with the damp flannel with the other.

"It's okay," Sherlock says putting the toast down on the plate in front of him. "Missus Hus-don is nice."

"Yeah she is," John says. He folds the lukewarm cloth and places it on the back of his neck. "Tongue up. I need to take your temperature."

Sherlock complies, letting John hold the digital thermometer until it beeps. John frowns when he reads the numbers on the little screen. _38.9_

"Not good?" Sherlock whispers.

"Bit not good, yeah," John says tugging his chin affectionately and removing the cloth. It wouldn't do to give him a chill with that high of a fever. "But that's okay. I'll right you up." He retrieves the meds from the kitchen and a glass of water, and returns to Sherlock's side. He twists off the cap and fills the eye dropper with the correct dose.

"Is that medicine?" Sherlock asks, his brow fretting.

"Yep. It's to help you," John says holding his hand under the dropper to keep from dripping any on the couch. Sherlock doesn't look convinced, so John puts the dropper back and closes the bottle. He shows them both to Sherlock. "See? This one is to help with your leg. And the other one is to help with your arm and your fever. It will make you feel a lot better even though you don't right now."

Sherlock looks at one of the bottles in his hand. He brings it up to his ear and shakes it a little, and then squeezes the rubber top of the dropper, listening to the bubbles gurgle inside.

"No pills?" he asks.

"Nope. I promise," John says. "It's not that kind of medicine. Trust me?"

"Okay," Sherlock says and hands it back to John. He smiles and fills the dropper again, and Sherlock obediently opens his mouth. With practised ease, John empties the dropper towards the back of his tongue so he is forced to swallow. Sherlock grimaces horribly, and John can't help but chuckle as he lets out an almighty sneeze. He brings a finger up to his lips, tongue working earnestly against the roof of his mouth to try and dispel the taste. John hands him the glass of water, holding it steady for him as he takes an eager gulp.

"One down and one to go," John says. Sherlock looks absolutely horrified.

"It tastes really gross, John!" he says.

"I know, kiddo," John says unable to contain his laughter. He uncaps the other one. "This one tastes like cherries."

Sherlock looks at him sceptically, but lets John give him the dose anyway. The look of indignation on his face afterwards is really quite priceless.

"Tha – that's not what cherries taste like at all," Sherlock says, trying to brush the offending taste off the tip of his tongue with his fingers.

"They're a bunch of liars, I know," John chuckles, and lets him take a few more sips of water.

"Gross," Sherlock says again, pouting after John takes away the glass.

"What say we try for some sleep again?" John says perching on the edge of the sofa.

Sherlock looks across the room to the dark hall that leads back to the bedroom. He worries the hem of his shirt with his fingers, twisting the fabric first one way then the other.

"What if —?" he hesitates, anxiety spreading across his face.

"What if what, Sherlock?"

"What if I forget again?" Sherlock says, finally looking up at him. John frowns not understanding what he means at first, and Sherlock casts his gaze fretfully back down the hall.

"Oh," John says frowning. "Is that what happened? You thought you were still back there?"

Sherlock nods tightly. "I didn't know where you were," he admits in a small voice.

John lets out a long sigh and leans back against the sofa, opening his arms.

"Come here," he says, and Sherlock eagerly clambers into his lap, instantly curling into him as he presses his face to John's jumper. "I promise I will always be here," John says, taking the afghan and wrapping it around him. He reclines slightly so Sherlock is resting comfortably with his front to John's stomach, his cheek against John's chest. He traces one finger rhythmically up and down the cable knit pattern of the jumper for a few long minutes before clutching a handful of the material securely in his fist. He turns his head to the other side, burrowing in even more as he yawns widely growing heavier by the second.

John rubs a hand up and down his back, and watches as that little fist eventually slackens and Sherlock's breathing evens out as he succumbs to sleep once more.

"Hoo, hoo!" Mrs. Hudson says quietly, tapping on the door frame. She looks a great deal more composed, and she has a carrier bag in her hand.

"Er, come in," John says, keeping his voice soft and his hand moving.

"I just brought a few groceries for you two," she whispers. "Just some cereal and apples and juice for the morning."

"You didn't have to do that," John says.

"Oh I know, dear," Mrs. Hudson says and sets about putting the items away in the kitchen. John smiles as she putters about, humming softly under her breath. She comes back out after a few minutes, a fresh cuppa in her hand, and gives it to John who sips it carefully before handing it back.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Johns says sincerely.

"You're welcome," she says setting it on the coffee table, her eyes shining. She sits on the sofa next to him and makes a sympathetic noise, hand sifting through Sherlock's hair again. Sherlock, for his part, is completely oblivious. "The little love's all tuckered out."

"It's been a hard day for him," John says. _Hard life, more like._ He swallows thickly.

"Will he be staying?" Mrs. Hudson says, quieter now.

"Yes, for the foreseeable future," John nods. Suddenly it hits him as he looks around his small flat that his mediocre one-bedroom apartment isn't going to cut it. "Mrs. Hudson…I know I signed the lease for at least a year, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to break it."

"Break it? Whatever for?" Mrs. Hudson says nonplussed as she continues to run her fingers through dark ringlets.

"I — well with Sherlock now, I have to find a bigger space." He rubs his forehead with his fingertips, adding another thing to the never ending list of things he was compiling.

"No you won't. You'll take the flat upstairs," Mrs. Hudson says leveling him a look. "It's got two bedrooms and it's fully furnished like this one here."

"No…Mrs. Hudson I couldn't," John says uncomfortably. He remembers peeking in on the flat when he was first looking at Baker Street, but the cost of rent for the two bedroom was a bit above his budget.

"You can and you will. The way I see it, you've already signed a lease, what difference dose it make whether you stay here or in the other flat?" She smiles at him.

"But the rent —" he says.

"Pish. It's not like anyone else has taken interest in the place. It's the draught I expect. Awfully cold up there. Old windows, I should think," Mrs. Hudson tuts. Which is a blatant lie, because they both know that 221B is actually a prime listing. He about to call her out on it when he realises what she's doing for him; realises that it's more than that and she actually wants him — _them_ — to stay.

He wants to tell her that it's much too much to ask of her, but the look she gives him is one that brooks no arguments. And if he were honest, a rather large part of himself capitulates all too readily to the relief of how easy and ideal it would be to move into the flat upstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson," he says, voice rough with gratitude. "I don't know _how_ I can ever begin to repay you."

"Nonsense, dearie," Mrs. Hudson says patting his cheek.

"I feel like I'm taking advantage," he says guiltily. The smile falls from her face, and she fixes him with a serious look.

"John." Her words are weighted, a heaviness to them that takes John by surprise. "I've run out of chances to hear the patter of a child's footsteps under my roof, so trust me when I say that having you and Sherlock take the flat is not a decision I have made lightly." She gets a faraway look in her eye for a moment, memories transporting her to a different time and place. When she comes back to herself, her eyes are bright with tears. "This little boy right here is something special, and it would bring an old lady so much _joy_ if you both would stay here."

"I – yes. Of course we'll stay," John says, and Mrs. Hudson grabs his hand and squeezes lightly. John has to swallow a few more times against the tightness in his throat.

"I'm glad that's all sorted," Mrs. Hudson says giving him a watery smile. She squeezes his hand one more time before getting up. "I will have the place ready for you first thing tomorrow. You just move in when ever you want, no hurry."

"Thank you," John says, and Mrs. Hudson nods. With one last caress to Sherlock's curls, she makes her way out of the flat, the door clicking shut softly in her wake.

John breathes deep, pressing his lips to the top of Sherlock's head and just leaving them there as he closes his eyes. An almost overwhelming gratitude for his landlady crashes over him and he is reminded of her words. Sherlock was special, and he already touched so many people's lives in such a spectacular way. What would have happened to him if the corruption he was subjected to eventually tore its way through that veil of innocence? He doesn't want to think about that. All that matters is that he would never have to be forced or abused ever again.

"See?" John whispers, toeing off his shoes. "Look at how many people care for you already, Bones." As careful as he can, he eases back to where he's laying lengthwise on the sofa, head propped comfortably up on the armrest. Sherlock stirs only to tuck his head more securely into John's shoulder. His little damp breaths unfurl peacefully against his collar, and John adjusts the blanket over them both. "As long as you're with me, I'll see to it that you never doubt that again."

Sherlock sighs in his sleep, gripping onto John's jumper once more, and John threads his fingers through his soft hair. They breathe in sync, their hearts beating in tandem against one another, and John shuts his eyes, letting himself be carried off by the quiet.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: You all have been so patient and so wonderful to this little story. This chapter is packed with all kinds of fluff to try and lighten it up a little. I hope you all enjoy!**

**xxHoney**

* * *

John wakes to the dim sunlight filtering in through the small windows of his basement flat with a bloody awful crick in his neck, yet feeling more rested than he's ever felt since he got back from the Army. For a moment he wonders why that is until he registers the pleasant warm weight resting on his chest and the events from yesterday all come flooding back.

He opens his eyes and looks down, his bad shoulder twinging in protest from having subconsciously wrapped his arm around Sherlock's sleeping form in the middle of the night to keep him from rolling off and onto the hard floor. He can't really see from his position, but going by the faint snores coming from Sherlock, he gathers that the little boy is still fast asleep. As careful as he can, John loosens his hold, and tries to get the blood flowing in his arm again.

Once he feels like the damned thing isn't going to drop off, and the pins and needles have receded to a dull ache, John brings his hand up again to sift gently through Sherlock's messy hair. He pauses for a moment, waiting for the doubt and panic to creep back in — because technically, this was day one of his life being solely responsible for the welfare of another human being essentially, and god knows how many ways he could cock that up before breakfast — but it never comes. Instead, he finds himself relishing this bit of respite; this feeling of everything falling into some type of working order for once, repairing all of the useless broken bits inside of him until all that remained was shining purpose and the fierce duty to protect what was his.

_His._

John takes a moment to mull over that thought, testing its weight and veracity to what he held true in his heart. He decides that yes, the phrasing is apt; Sherlock belonged to him just as much as he belonged to Sherlock. There was no going back from that. And if…if the courts decided otherwise he would fight tooth-and-nail to be in this little boy's life in any capacity because deep down, if he's honest, he's not entirely sure who saved who in the end.

His eyes automatically drift towards the small safe sitting on the writing desk, and his mind wanders down much darker trains of thought. The thing inside exists as a thing in stasis; an insidious idea more than a tangible object like some sort of Schrödinger's Cat made of steel and gun oil.

Strictly speaking, he wasn't even supposed to have his service weapon any more. It was against the law, for one, and for two it belonged to the Army. But in the midst of the hairy mess of paperwork shuffled about in order to have him invalided and properly discharged, he may have mentioned he lost his gun during the siege. They didn't bother cross checking the information given he was half out of it due to a fever brought on because of infection, and after that it was just a matter of sending it through the post when all was said and done.

At first he didn't know what motivated him to go to such lengths to keep the gun, but in the recent months as of late, the nascent darkness inside of him began to permeate his every thought and he wonders if it was a subconscious motive he had in store. It was perhaps a Bit Very Not Good, and he wonders how long he would have gone until he inevitably gave in to those impulses and —

Good lord. He really did need therapy, didn't he?

He continues to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, trying his best to dissipate those disturbing thoughts, and feels himself dozing off again as the dewy sunlight shafts across the sitting room.

He wakes again sometime later to the feeling of tiny hands pawing his face, and he blinks his eyes open. He is greeted with a pair of curious blue eyes staring inquisitively back at him.

"Good morning," John says, voice roughened with sleep. The hands on his cheeks move up and down, in and out, little fingers wiggling as they explore the terrain of his face.

"Your nose makes funny sounds when you are sleeping," Sherlock says. He brings the hand not encased in the splint up to poke his nose for emphasis. John wriggles it comically, and Sherlock presses his lips into a thin line trying not to smile.

"Does it?"

"Yes. It's loud," Sherlock says.

_"Oh really?"_ John says in a falsely appalled voice. Sherlock's almost-smile fades a little, and that just won't do, so John leans in and snorts loudly through his nose, and snuffles into the crook of Sherlock's neck.

A glorious thing happens just then. Sherlock shrieks in surprise, and then dissolves into high, effervescent giggles as John tickles him under his chin and holds him tight to keep him from getting away.

"John!" Sherlock says through the laughter, and struggles to push John's head away as he continues to snuffle and snort against Sherlock's cheek. John sits up fully with Sherlock in his lap and continues to tickle him until Sherlock laughs a deep belly laugh that has John's own eyes watering with tears of mirth. Sherlock throws his arms around John's neck, pressing his smooth cheek against his as his giggles taper off, and John holds him swaying lightly from side to side as his own laugher dips down into a steady hum. It suddenly hits him that this is how his life could be from here on out, and a warm heady feeling blooms in his chest.

"I think," John says pulling away from Sherlock so he could regard him seriously, "it's time we got you into the bath."

"Bath?" Sherlock says, a small frown creasing his brow. "I don't like baths very much."

"Have you ever had a bubble bath?" John asks, and Sherlock shakes his head. "Ah well that would be why, then." He gets up, hitching Sherlock on his hip as he makes his way to the bathroom.

He sets Sherlock on the floor, and proceeds to turn on the tap, giving the ancient pipes a chance to warm properly before stopping up the drain. He rolls up the sleeves of his jumper to his elbows, and sets about trying to locate the small bottle of lemon bubble bath his sister had given him. At the time she insisted he take it in one of her drunken stupors, saying she needed him to get rid of it for her because it reminded her too much of Clara. He had reluctantly agreed, and in hindsight is quite glad for it now. He turns around from rummaging in the cabinet with a triumphant _'ha!',_ and regards Sherlock curiously for a moment.

The little boy is standing next to the tub, hand trailing back and forth through the water. He looks at John, his expression bright.

"It's warm!" Sherlock informs him.

"Well, yes," John says kneeling next to him and making sure the water wasn't too hot.

"I didn't know you could make them warm," Sherlock says, continuing to trail his fingers through the water. John looks at him, incredulous. He closes his eyes against the welling anger and sadness within him. God, would he never stop being blindsided by the blatant cruelty Sherlock was made to endure? No wonder he hated baths, if it meant sitting in a vat of freezing water the whole time. He clears his throat and unscrews the bottle.

"Just wait. This is the fun part," John says and pours a thin stream of bubble bath into the water. He sets it on the ledge and agitates the water with his hand, and Sherlock's eyes grow big as the tub fills with fluffy white bubbles. He reaches out a finger and pops one of the bigger ones, giggling softly. John turns off the tap, and helps Sherlock take off his shirt and splint. "Just be careful with your arm, okay? We'll put it back on when you're done."

"Okay," Sherlock says, and John lowers him into the warm water. Sherlock skims his good hand over the tops of the bubbles, gathering them towards him at first and then pushing them away in fascination. John grabs the flannel hanging by the sink and begins to scrub his back and shoulders. "John, look!"

"Hm?" John says. Sherlock holds up a hand full of foamy bubbles, and blows, puffing out his cheeks. They fly everywhere, and Sherlock laughs in glee. "See? Baths aren't so bad."

"I think I like them now," Sherlock agrees, and blows some bubbles at John.

"Hey!" John says, wiping a hand over his face. Sherlock's clear giggle rings out through the bathroom, and he claps a hand over his mouth almost bashfully as if he didn't know he could make such a noise. "You think that's funny do you?" John says and takes some water in his cupped hand so he could spill it over Sherlock's head. He swipes at some bubbles and dots his nose with them, chuckling when Sherlock sneezes. "Look up for me." Sherlock tilts his head back so John could finish rinsing his hair. He uncaps a bottle of his shampoo and pours a little into his palm, working a decent lather into Sherlock's tangle of curls.

"Smells nice," Sherlock says still playing with the bubbles.

"Smells _clean,_ you smelly child," John says, and Sherlock giggles again. It's a sound that John will never get tired of for as long as he lives, he's sure, and in that moment makes it his goal to make sure Sherlock laughs as often as possible. "Eyes closed," he instructs, and begins to rinse out the suds. He keeps one hand shielded over his eyes just in case, and runs his fingers through, making sure to scrub down to his scalp as well.

Just then, a knock sounds from the sitting room, and the familiar _'Hoo hoo!'_ floats down the hall.

"Missus Husdon is here," Sherlock says.

"Mrs. _Hud_son," John corrects.

"Hud-son," Sherlock repeats wrinkling his nose. John laughs and smears another wodge of bubbles on his nose before getting up and drying his hands.

"I'll be right back," he says. "Don't go anywhere."

"Okay," Sherlock says tenting his knees upwards and resting his chin atop them.

John smiles and follows the sound of banging cupboards and rustling bags coming from the kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson," John says. She startles, turning around from breaking apart a bunch of bananas and putting them in a bowl along with some other fruit.

"Oh! I didn't know you were in, dear!" she says bringing the bowl to sit in the middle of the table. "Where is the little love?"

"He's in the bath," John says. He eyes the various carrier bags strewn along the counter. "What's all this?"

"I just wanted to pick you both up something hot to eat from Speedy's," Mrs. Hudson explains pulling out two Styrofoam boxes with hotcakes and sausages and a small cardboard cup of oatmeal. She bustles over to a set of matching yellow plastic bags and begins pulling out various clothes. "And these I got from Mrs. Turner. She has a grandson, all grown and moved away to Uni now, but these were some of his clothes from when he was small. Some jim-jams and socks and pants and the like. It's not much but…" she trails off pulling out item after item and folding them neatly on the table. It is more than John could have ever asked for.

"Mrs. Hudson," John says at a loss. "This is…incredible. Thank you." He leans over and kisses her on the cheek and she blushes.

"Not a problem, dear. It's not like Marie's grandson was using them anymore."

"It will save me loads on things I'll need to pick up for him." He reaches over and helps her air out some of the shirts. He's thrilled that there's a good sturdy jacket and warm mittens among the lot. It being November, the weather was getting progressively colder. "He doesn't have anything. Not a stitch aside from what I brought him home in."

Mrs. Hudson _tsks_ under her breath, and pulls out a set of bed sheets and a quilt with dancing elephants on it. "These should do for the bed that's in the attic bedroom. I've made sure I got the right size. I've already dusted up there so it should be fit to move in any time you're ready."

John looks at her astonished, and a bit overwhelmed. "London would certainly fall without you here at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, I swear to God."

"Oh you," Mrs. Hudson says shaking her head and refolding the quilt. John peruses the rest of the clothes and things, seeing to his mental list and crossing off some items with a satisfied little smile, pleased at how neatly things seemed to be falling into place. After a moment, Mrs. Hudson pauses, and fixes him with a confused look. "John dear…?"

"Mm?" John says, rolling a few sets of socks into neat little bundles.

"Is the tap running?"

"What?" John starts, head perking up. Sure enough the sound of water can be heard rushing thought the pipes. "Oh god. I'm an idiot."

He jogs back to the bathroom where he left Sherlock, and pushes open the door.

The sight that greets him is, well, to be expected for leaving a five-year-old unsupervised he supposes.

There are bubbles everywhere, dripping over the sides, creeping up the wall, and running onto the floor as the bath continues to fill with water. Luckily it hasn't reached the point of overflowing yet, but the bubbles don't seem to mind, virtually taking on a mind of their own as they continue to multiply. And there in the middle of the towering froth, is Sherlock's dark head and wide innocent eyes.

John can only purse his lips and grunt ruefully at the sight.

"I wanted more bubbles," Sherlock says by means of an explanation as John comes over to shut the water off.

"Yes I can see that," John says. He sits back on his heels and turns his attention back to the little culprit. He knows now would be the time to reprimand, however, the sight of Sherlock as he's all but swallowed up by the bubbly mass is so ridiculous and…really quite _wonderful_ that John can't help the laugh that bubbles to the surface. "Next time you want more, tell me, yeah?" he says and only laughs more when Sherlock sneezes again causing the bubbles curling under his chin to scatter in all directions. Eyes watering he unstops the drain, shaking his head and grabbing a towel.

Mrs. Hudson hearing the commotion, tentatively pokes her head in and gasps when she sees the sight. This only makes John laugh harder.

"Look Missus Husdon! Bubbles!" Sherlock says cheerfully as he stands up letting John give him a cursory rinse-off.

"My goodness," Mrs. Hudson says, not able to keep her own smile at bay.

"Sorry about the mess Mrs. H," John says through his chuckling. He wipes down Sherlock as much as he can before bundling him up in the fluffy towel and lifting him into his arms.

"Not to worry, love. I'm glad to see that he's feeling a bit better from last night," she says. "Well I should be going so I can let you two settle in. Don't forget there's breakfast on the table. I want my boys to be big and strong so you'll need to eat it up while it's still warm."

"Will do," John says, beaming at her.

"Bye," Sherlock says shyly, bending his index finger a couple of times like he saw Molly Hooper do in some sort of secret little wave. Mrs. Hudson smiles softly at him and drops a kiss to his forehead before she leaves.

"Well," John says surveying the crime scene before him. "That was an experience."

Sherlock tilts his head thoughtfully, looking down at the glorious mess. "We need more bubbles."

John barks out a laugh. "I'll add it to the list," he says tugging his chin. "Let's see what Mrs. Hudson brought for you, yeah?"

-oOo-

After changing Sherlock into fresh clothes, and wrangling some more medicine into him much to his dismay, they were seated at the table (Sherlock balanced on a few of his ancient medical tomes so he could reach) with their respective plates of hotcakes and sausages.

John watches as Sherlock tears his food into little pieces, a bit of sausage in one hand and a bit of hotcake in the other. He trades off munching first on one then the other before contemplating them curiously for a moment and putting them both in his mouth at the same time. Due to his expression, he is pleasantly surprised, and repeats the process humming a little in contentment. John eats some of the oatmeal, happy to just watch him. He was so inquisitive and eager to learn, and seeing him have the freedom to explore and experiment the way children do was fulfilling to watch.

"Is it good?" John asks, and Sherlock nods vigourously. "Do you want a bite of mine?"

Sherlock tilts his head in what is quickly becoming a trademark look for him, and regards John's oatmeal. "What does it taste like?"

"Why don't you try it and see?" John says holding out a spoonful.

Sherlock takes it and puts it in his mouth. He chews for a second before his face scrunches up and his mouth drops open in a moue of disgust making John laugh. "Mu-thy!" he says through the mouthful, lisping as the goo sticks to his tongue. John gives him a napkin to spit it out and some juice to wash it down. "Too mushy," he repeats.

"It is a bit, isn't it?" John says taking the spoon back from him. He puts the rest of his sausages on Sherlock's plate noticing that he seemed to favour them the most and takes a sip of his coffee.

After a moment Sherlock stops mid-chew, head perking up. He looks around with a frown on his face, and John looks up from reading the paper.

"What's the matter?" John asks.

"Buzzing," Sherlock says slowly, licking his fingers. He still has that funny little frown on his face, and with his splinted hand he rubs at his ear. John is reminded of the fluorescent lights in the hospital, and is about to ask what Sherlock is hearing when he suddenly hears it too.

His mobile. Oh. Oh!

"Shit!" John scrambles up from the table almost upending the container of oatmeal. "Er. Don't repeat that," he says before ducking out of the kitchen and lunging for his jacket hanging by the door. He unlocks the screen of his phone, and the glaring symbol of the low battery is flashing at him along with a notification for seven missed calls. Two are from his sister Harry, and the rest are from Sarah with voice messages to match. He listens to each one, her voice growing more and more irate, and kicks himself for completely forgetting all about his job — which he should have been at an hour ago as her last voice mail informs him.

"Shit," he says again under his breath and promptly dials her back. He hopes his phone has enough juice to let him complete the call.

_"Well I guess I can call off the search party,"_ Sarah says when she picks up on the second ring, her tone terse and clipped.

"God, Sarah. I'm so, so sorry. I had a little —"

_"Christ John!"_ she says cutting him off. _"I don't know what kind of practice you think I'm running, but you can't just faff off when ever you feel like it. You are missing yesterday's paperwork, and you bloody forgot to clock out!"_

"I know, but Sarah —"

_"You get your arse in here right now, John Watson. I don't want to hear any more excuses,"_ she says, and before John can get another word in, the line goes dead as she hangs up. John exhales loudly through his mouth, and rubs his forehead with his thumb. This wasn't going to be pretty. He wants to call back and try and reason with her, but his phone is almost certainly dead now, and he figures she probably won't have the patience to listen to him anyway. It was best to go in and see her and…grovel or something because he really couldn't afford to lose his job now of all times.

"John?" a tremulous voice pipes up from the kitchen and John ducks back in through the doorway. Sherlock sits in his chair, a stricken pained expression on his face, fists crushing sausage and hotcake to pulp. His breath is shallow as he looks at him.

"What is it, Bones?" John says. Sherlock doesn't respond at first, and John kneels, gently uncurling his fingers from their death grip. "Sherlock?"

At this, Sherlock closes his eyes, a deep anxiousness settling over him that manifests as tremors through out his small frame. He opens his mouth a few times as if to say something, but closes it and simply buries his face into John's hand when he brings it up to his face. He's trembling harder, and worried, John carefully lifts him up so he could look into his face. Sherlock isn't having it, though, and tucks his forehead against John's shoulder. At a loss for what else to do, John adopts the shifting sway from foot to foot he fell into last night, and murmurs soothing words of encouragement until Sherlock's shaking subsides somewhat.

"Mmh, mmhm," Sherlock hums repeatedly into his collar bone, breathy and a little too fast. John can feel his heart patter, and Sherlock grips hard onto John's jumper. John hugs him even tighter in reciprocation shushing him gently. This seems to have the desired effect because the tension suddenly drains out of his little body and he inhales deeply as if finally breathing freely.

"There we go. That's right, it's all right," John says calmly even though he is rather alarmed. He doesn't know what just happened, but chalks it up to Sherlock's general anxiety and the need to feel secure. After all, his entire world was upturned in under twenty-four hours. He holds Sherlock tighter still, and notices that this is doing the trick, and in the back of his mind he remember researching topics such as Aspberger's Syndrome and the Autistic Spectrum and similar compression soothing techniques, and wonders if this applies to Sherlock. It seemed to fit many of his peculiarities, but then again he wasn't big on psych. Perhaps Sherlock was just Sherlock, and didn't know any other way to process the details around him? He was definitely a little mystery, that was for sure. After a moment, Sherlock finally lifts his head and studies John with a look of lingering trepidation.

"All better?" John says smiling, trying not to let his concern show. Sherlock nods shyly, playing with the collar of John's jumper for lack of anything else to do. "Can you tell me what you were feeling?"

"It's…" Sherlock falters, unable to express what he was going for. Instead he places both hands on the sides of John's head and presses inward slightly, and then moves down to John's chest to repeat the action. Then, spreading his hands he stretches his arms out wide. "And sometimes like that too. Like big and small at the same time."

"Hm," John says. "Do you feel like that often?"

"Yes," Sherlock says glumly. His rests his hand on John's shoulder, looking down at it. "I'm — I'm sorry."

"Hey. You don't have to apologise for that. Ever. Do you understand?" John says cupping Sherlock's chin. He looks back at John confused. "No one should feel ashamed for what they feel."

Sherlock takes a moment more to process this new paradigm, his eyes traveling back down to John's chest in contemplation. "Okay," Sherlock whispers coming to a decision, smiling meekly. He puts his hands back on John's cheeks and simply looks back at him.

"Good," John says, and snorts one more time startling another laugh out of Sherlock. "Now come on. We have to run a few errands."

-oOo-

Sherlock grips John's hand as they walk into the small clinic. He receives a look from the receptionist, Abigail, her neat eyebrows rising in astonishment as she stares at Sherlock.

"You're in big trouble, Dr. Watson," Abigail says, but smiles brightly at Sherlock and waves her fingers in his direction. He tucks his face behind John's leg.

"Yes I suppose I am," John says, sighing. "Is she in her office, then?"

"She's in a consult, but you can wait for her in there," she says, and John nods.

"All right then. Into battle, I suppose," he says and leads Sherlock back to Sarah's quiet office.

"She has three cats," Sherlock informs him.

"Does she?" John says closing the door.

"Mmhm. A white one and an orange one and a black one," he says. "Why are you in trouble?"

"Well…I forgot to tell my boss about you, and she thought I forgot about work and because of it, I made it harder to do her job," John explains and lifts him up onto his hip so he could see out of the windows behind Sarah's desk. He seemed to like looking out them at the wide world, everything full of wonder for him. The taxi ride was amusing for John to say the least. It was the first time Sherlock wasn't out of it with fear or exhaustion, and he eagerly sat on John's lap with his face pressed to the glass as the hustle and bustle of London passed them by.

"Is it my fault?" Sherlock asks quietly staring out the window. A magpie perches on the willow outside and preens its feathers.

"No, it was mine. I forgot plain and simple. There are just some things that are more important."

"Do you help other people like me?" Sherlock says turning his curious gaze onto him once more.

"I do. I help them when they are sick or hurt."

"You make them better," he states.

"Yes."

"You make them better like me," he pipes with one of his shy smiles.

John smiles back. "Yes."

"Then she won't be mad anymore," he says as if it really were that simple. He holds up his splinted arm for emphasis. "See?"

John chuckles lightly pressing his forehead to Sherlock's before dropping a kiss onto his crown. "Well who could argue with that logic?"

"Ex-zactly," Sherlock says and John chuckles some more.

At that moment, the door swings open, and in breezes Sarah Sawyer. By her expression, John can tell she's ready to light into him, but she deflates, a startled breath leaving her as she takes stock of the sight in front of her.

"John — er…?" she stutters. "What's…?" She gestures to Sherlock with a clipboard in her hand.

"Sarah; meet Sherlock," John says. Sherlock does that little wave with his finger again, and Sarah's hard countenance softens a little.

"Hullo Sherlock," she says coming further into the room and setting the clip board on her desk. She props herself against it, arms folded over her chest. "Care to explain, John?"

"Well…you remember that house call you sent me on yesterday?" John says.

"The one you went AWOL on?" Sarah remarks, arching a sarcastic eyebrow. "Rings a bell."

"All right, yes, I forgot to check back in, but under the circumstances I don't think you can blame me," John says irritation prickling the back of his neck.

"Circumstances?"

"The call was for Sherlock, Sarah. It was your classic case of child neglect, and I had to get him out," John says simply. Sarah frowns, tilting her head as if seeing Sherlock for the first time. Her eyes travel to his splint making the connection.

"What about his father? Mr. Hope?" she says. John goes to answer, but before I can Sherlock beats him to it.

"He's not my father," he says shaking his head. John squeezes him lightly.

"He's absent, and the one in question for the negligence," John states vaguely. He wasn't sure how much he was able to say especially given the case was still under investigation.

"Then who called it in?" Sarah says, and John realises he doesn't actually know the answer to that. He looks at Sherlock, remembering him saying that he was the one who contacted the clinic, but in the chaos he never asked him how he managed to do so. Sherlock blinks at him, and sticks a finger diffidently into his mouth. Instead John says, "Chalk it up to a concerned neighbor, or something. The point is, there was no one else and so…so I…"

"So you took it upon yourself," Sarah says, a soft rueful smile gracing her lips. "I'm not surprised," she walks up to him and cups his cheek a moment, her previous ire forgotten, "ever the soldier." John gives her a grateful smile in return. It's moments like this he wishes they could have worked out once upon a time ago. "So I suppose I can't just get rid of you can I?"

"You can't!" Sherlock suddenly says. "He makes people better, and he made me better, and John says you can't argue with that log-ick."

"Sherlock…" John says, trying not to let his amusement get the best of his attempted parenting skills.

"Oh?" Sarah says giving John a wink. "Well if he made you better, then I guess there really is no arguing."

Sherlock nods and holds out his splinted wrist. "It hurt a lot and he made it better. He made it so I don't ever have to go back to Mister Hope," he says, voice quavering at the end. Sarah's face melts into one of sympathy as she takes Sherlock's arm and examines it.

"It's no fun being hurt, is it?" Sarah murmurs.

"No," Sherlock says. He touches the tip of his finger to the small circular scar in the crook of her elbow. "I have one like this on my leg. John made it better too," he whispers. "Did John make yours better too?"

Sarah blinks at him in shock, looking to John for answers. He gives her a small understanding smile. "Er. No. This happened a long time ago."

"Are they gone?" Sherlock asks.

"Is who gone?"

"The person who hurt you," Sherlock says.

Sarah swallows audibly, and presses her lips together. "They are very far away, now."

"Good," Sherlock sighs. He pats her arm, and seemingly done with the conversation, he turns in John's arms and wraps his arms around his neck, hugging tightly. "I made it better for you John," he mumbles. "It's okay now."

"Yes you did," John says sharing a look with Sarah. He rubs Sherlock's back the way he knows he likes, and Sherlock reciprocates like children do, mirroring John, his little hand warm against his shoulder blade. It's heart rendering, and John has to close his eyes a moment to keep from drowning in the tenderness he feels towards the little boy in his arms. "Sarah," he starts a little gruff, "I think I am going to be cashing in my holiday early, if that's all right? I have a few things to get sorted."

"Absolutely," she says, empathy crackling low in her eyes like a warm flame. She kisses him on the cheek. "Take as much time as you need, love."

He nods, and with one arm pulls her into a grateful embrace.

"Thank you."


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Hello my lovelies! You all have been so patient in waiting while I was busy finishing up my other story. (If you are here because of 'The Colour of Light' then BLESS YOU I LOVE YOU ALL.) So I hope that you all like this little chapter. Sherlock's POV again, yay!**

* * *

Sherlock grips onto John's trouser leg as he watches him and his lady boss Sarah, talk about more papers and things. They are in John's office now, and Sherlock looks around with interest. This was where John made people feel better, and patched up their hurts, and with a curious tilt to his head, Sherlock's gaze lingers on the plaster skull sitting on the big desk.

He looks back up to John, and sees that he's busy still, and he sticks his finger in his mouth to chew on for a second. He walks up to the desk, and stares up at it, the top of his head barely level with the edge of it, and reaches out to grab the skull. It's a little heavy, and he almost drops it, but he clutches it close to his chest, and sits on the floor. He balances it on his knees, and runs his finger over the teeth and dips into the eye sockets. It was fascinating, and it almost seems to be grinning at him.

He ducks his head and whispers, "My name is Sherlock, and I think I want to take you with us." He rubs the top of the skull, and imagines the toothy grin widening a fraction. It makes him giggle softly. "I'll call you Billy."

"Thanks again, Sarah," John says squeezing her shoulder. "It was just so unexpected, and I really appreciate you meeting me half-way on this."

"It's not a problem, John. I will have someone fill in for you while you are gone. Just remember not to be a stranger," she says. "I'm available if you need a break or need to go get drinks or what have you."

"I'll keep that in mind," John smiles. Sherlock gets to his feet, Billy the Skull tucked in the crook of his arm. He grips back onto John's trousers. John looks down at him, doing a double take at Billy before shrugging, and picking Sherlock back up. "Are you ready to go, Bones?"

"Mmhm. Billy's coming too," Sherlock says, and pats the skull again.

"Billy, huh?" John says. "I can't believe he's been sitting on my desk all this time and I didn't even know his name."

"You didn't ask, John. If you asked he would have told you," Sherlock says pointedly.

"Oh of course. How rude of me," John says. "Nice to meet you, Billy."

Sherlock laughs because John is playing _back_ with him. He's never had anyone to play with him before, and that was one of the best things about John, he was pretty sure. That and his hugs, which were the _best_ best thing. Sherlock brings the skull up at eyelevel, and smiles back at John.

"Billy says it's nice to meet you too, and not to worry because he won't tell about the candy you keep secret in your desk," Sherlock says seriously. John's smile fades for a second in surprise before he barks out a laugh that makes his shoulders shake, and his breath to come out all wheezy. Sarah laughs too, bringing her hand up to her mouth, and Sherlock just smiles and pats Billy on the head.

"Oh Christ," John finally says catching his breath. "What am I going to do with you?"

Sherlock doesn't really understand the question, but that's okay because John squeezes him tight and looks at him with his Proud Expression. Sherlock likes this a lot so he wraps an arm around John's neck and hugs him tight. He hopes John always looks at him like that.

"You two have a good rest of your day," Sarah says still chuckling.

"We will," John says, and Sherlock waves at her over his shoulder as they walk down the corridor.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock pipes as they situate themselves in another taxi cab. Sherlock likes cab rides especially because he can look out the window, and if he asks a question John won't get mad and hit him for asking stupid questions, and always tries to answer him even if his questions really are silly. And if he doesn't know the answer he says they will find out the answer later because that's what good scientists do. Like why exactly the sky is the colour blue and why the leaves turn brown and fall off the trees. Or why sometimes when it gets cold you can see the air when you breathe, and what all the different signs mean up and down the road. There are lots of signs, and John explains the ones Sherlock asks after even if he already knows what some of them mean.

"We've got to pick up some food and stuff for the flat. We're going to the super market," he says bouncing his knees a little.

"Can we get more sausages?" Sherlock asks.

"We sure can."

"And hotcakes?"

"Yep."

"And more bubbles?" he says hopefully.

"And more bubbles," John confirms.

"Okay," Sherlock says settling back against John. Then he remembers. "But no oatmeal."

John laughs again and hugs him briefly. "All right. No oatmeal. But I am getting some good fruit and veg; no compromises."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose but nods anyway, and watches the cars zip past out the window.

The super market is busy, and Sherlock's eyes grow wide when he sees all of the colourful aisles of cans and various boxes and things. The lights are bright, and there's a lot of noise, and he stops in his tracks, hand slipping out of John's.

"Sherlock?" John says turning around.

"I – I haven't been to a place like this before," Sherlock says. His eyes tack onto a clerk off to his right arguing with a customer, then jump to a girl riding a mechanical pony shrieking that she wanted to get off, then over to the flashing lights from one of the cash machines. A voice comes over a loud speaker, all crackly and shrill, and Sherlock flinches.

John kneels down in front of him, blocking his view from the chaos of the shop. "It's a little overwhelming, isn't it?" Sherlock nods. "Here, why don't I get a trolley and you and Billy can sit up front, and you can name all of the red things you can see in one aisle, and then in the next one you can name all of the blue things and so on."

"Like…a game?" Sherlock asks.

"Exactly," John says.

"Okay," Sherlock says, and allows John to lift him up and set him in the top of a trolley. Sherlock sets Billy next to him, and puts his hands on the handle on the inside of John's bigger ones.

"Tell me which end we should start at," John says.

Sherlock looks to his right, and then to his left, thinking for a moment. He points to the left. "That way."

"That way it is," John says, and steers the trolley in the direction of the produce.

Sherlock looks at all of the red things, but there aren't many because most of them are green so it makes it harder to pick out, and before long Sherlock is concentrating hard on spotting them all even the things in packages.

"What's this one?" Sherlock asks pointing to an unfamiliar bunch of little red things tied together at the stems.

"Radishes," John replies, chucking a bundle of carrots into the trolley.

"Radishes," Sherlock repeats. They turn into the next aisle, and Sherlock rattles off all of the things he can see and read.

About halfway through the store they run out of colours, so John switches tack.

"I spy with my little eye something orange," he says giving him a sly look.

Sherlock looks around trying to find something orange. He looks directly over his shoulder to where John would have been staring, and exclaims, "Orange juice!"

"Very good!" John says and grabs a bottle of the stuff off the shelf.

Sherlock beams, and they continue like this through the rest of the shopping trip, John changing the direction he was looking, sometimes completely passing the item they needed in order to throw him off. But Sherlock got it every time because he was clever, and John told him so.

It was a lot of fun, and Sherlock forgot about all of the people around him, and soon they were back in another taxi on their way back home. Sherlock yawns widely, leaning his head back against John's shoulder.

"Billy says he had a good time in the super market," Sherlock mumbles.

"Did he? Well both you and Billy were very helpful," John says still playing along with him, and Sherlock smiles. He tries to watch out the window again, but his eyes are getting heavy, and John starts humming under his breath. Before long Sherlock dozes off.

It only feels like a few seconds before John's voice wakes him up, and he rubs his eye with his good hand.

"Come on, sleepy head. We're home," he says, and they get out of the cab. Sherlock yawns, and holds on to one of the bags in John's hand as he lets himself be led into the flat.

"Mmph," Sherlock says groggily, and follows John into the kitchen. He stands in the middle of the floor, falling asleep right on his feet until John comes over and takes Billy from his slackening grip. He's vaguely aware of John unzipping his jacket and asking him a question, but he doesn't really understand. "Mmph," he says again, and is lifted into John's arms and carried to the sofa. The fluffy blanket that smells of pine trees and cinnamon is tucked around him, and he falls asleep with John's hand in his hair…

_Mister Hope was mad again. Sherlock can tell in the way he snaps and snarls especially at the telly, and in the way he stomps around._

_Something bad happened. Something that made Father and Mister Hope angry, and when Mister Hope was angry, Sherlock knew he needed to hide._

_That's what he was doing now. He was in his secret place, the small cupboard in the hall. It was dusty and smelled funny, but it was warm and safe and inside Sherlock could pretend he didn't exist. If he was lucky maybe Mister Hope would forget about him and go to bed and then maybe Sherlock could crawl out and find something to eat. He hopes there is still that bag of bread on the table, and even though it is old and green, he hopes there are still some good parts. Just thinking about it makes his tummy squeeze tight in hunger._

_He brings his knees up to his chest, and buries his face in them and tries not to think about being hungry._

_He doesn't know how long he sits in his hiding place, but it's quiet in the sitting room, the telly having been turned off some time ago, and he raises his head._

_As quiet as a little mouse, he pushes open the small cupboard door and looks up and down the hall._

_It was dark, the sun setting rapidly, and Sherlock's stomach makes another groan of protest. He tip-toes across the floor remembering to avoid all of the squeaky spots until he reaches the sitting room. He has to go through it to the kitchen, but when he gets there on the threshold, he stops dead. An icy trickle of fear runs down his spine when he spots the top of Mister Hope's head just over the back of the sofa. He should really just go upstairs to his room, but he's really really hungry, and he decides to take his chances and creeps quietly past a sleeping Mister Hope._

_The sour smell of alcohol reaches him, and he breathes out a little. Hopefully he would stay asleep like he usually does when he drinks a lot._

_He makes it to the kitchen, and quietly crawls up onto one of the dining room chairs in search of the bread he saw earlier. The table is cluttered, and at first glance he doesn't spot the bread anywhere. He looks over his shoulder at the refrigerator on the off chance that Mister Hope forgot to lock it, but spies the brass padlock fastened in its usual place and his heart sinks. A few tears prick his eyes, and he wipes his nose with the back of his hand before looking back at the table. He's about to give up when he spots the familiar blue plastic bag under an old newspaper. He reaches out bending forward as much as he can until his fingertips brush the edge, and he pulls._

_The paper shifts, sliding sideways, and disturbs an old water glass making it tip. Sherlock freezes and watches in horror as falls over the edge, seemingly in slow motion, his heart stuttering to a stop._

_It shatters apart on the kitchen tiles, and at the same time, the Monster wakes up from its slumber with a roar causing everything to change in an instant._

_The shadows in the kitchen bend and shift, crawling across the walls to converge on him, and a low growl can be heard from the sitting room. Sherlock is reminded of a fairytale with a giant, and wishes he was even smaller so he could hide behind a tea cup. He knows what's coming for him, and he wants to run back to his hiding spot, but he can't move his legs, and is helpless but to stand there and watch as Mister Hope crashes into the kitchen._

_'WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, YOU LITTLE SHIT?' he snarls, growing in height, his fingernails sharp and curling like a beast._

_Sherlock's heart pounds, and he is finally released from his trance. He jumps off the chair and falls not on the floor but into a swimming pool full of water._

_It's deep and Sherlock can't touch the bottom but the beast of Mister Hope can't reach him from where he's at, stalking back and forth on the side of the pool with glowing red eyes._

_'YOU BETTER COME HERE RIGHT NOW, SHERLOCK! YOU GET OVER 'ERE AND TACK YOUR MEDICINE! YOU THINK I'M DONE WITH YOU? WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YER I'M GONNA BREAK YOUR OTHER ARM, MARK MY WORDS, YOU SELFISH CHILD!' Mister Hope rages, frothing at the mouth as his eyes grow wild and his claws grow larger._

_Sherlock can't swim to the ledge because Mister Hope will snatch him in a second, but his legs are getting tired from kicking, and his feet feel like stones. He gets a mouth full of water, and he thrashes as much as he can to keep his head from slipping under the icy water, but it's no use. He begins to get pulled under, and he holds his breath as best as he can before he has no choice. His chest is burning, and he is sinking sinking sinking, crushing darkness on all sides and —_

Sherlock gasps awake, tangled up in unfamiliar bed sheets and not knowing where he is. The first thing out of his mouth is a terrified, _"John!"_because he doesn't recognise the room that he's in, and that means Mister Hope must have found him and now they have to hide again, going from house to another strange house, and no no no no no…

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John says, flying through the bedroom door.

"No, no, no, no," Sherlock repeats the mantra in his head rocking back and forth, arms wound tight around his knees, eyes tightly shut as his heart beat echoes like a hammer in his skull.

"Hey, hey, hey," John says, and immediately lifts him up into his arms. Sherlock, still partially insensate from his nightmare, clings to John blindly.

"Don't want to go…" he moans brokenly, and John rubs his back.

"Oh, Sherlock," John murmurs gently. He kisses his forehead and sways side to side. "It's all right. I'm here, calm down."

Sherlock's head hurts really bad, and he only cries harder which doesn't help at all. It feels like his brain is trying to squeeze out through his eye sockets.

"Joh – John!" he hiccups. His sobs break off into a thin string, trying not to jar his poor skull more than necessary. "My head, John. It hurts, it hu–rts!"

"Your head?" John asks, anxiety in his voice. He presses his cool hand against his brow. "Okay hang on, love."

Gingerly John cradles Sherlock in his arms, his head resting in the crook of his elbow and makes his way down a flight of stairs.

"Mmphm," Sherlock sobs and sucks in a sharp breath. Everything was feeling big and small again, and it was making him feel like he was going to fly apart from the inside. He grabs onto the front of John's shirt and tries to keep him from slipping away.

"Is everything all right?" comes a vaguely familiar voice, but Sherlock can't bring himself to open his eyes. The lights were too bright, and they were stabbing at his eyelids.

"I'm not sure, but I think it's a migraine," John says, his voice low and sibilant.

Sherlock doesn't know what that means, but he feels himself being lowered into a cushy chair, and panics.

"No, no! John! Please, I don't wanna go, I don't wanna go!" Sherlock cries, holding tighter onto his shirt giving John no choice but to keep him in his arms.

"Sherlock, it's okay I need to go get you some medicine, I'll be right back," John says.

"N – no medicine! I'll be good I promise!" Sherlock says prying his eyes open so he could look and make sure John was really there. It was a mistake, because the sun from the windows was really bright causing a spike of pain to shoot through his head again.

"Miss Hooper, can you draw the curtains for me?" John says. Sherlock buries his face in the crook of John's neck, holding tight as he starts walking again. "Sherlock, I need you to try and calm down, can you do that for me? Can you be brave, Bones? You're head will feel better if you calm down."

"O – kay," Sherlock says trying to stop his crying. John was here. Mister Hope was gone forever. He breathes in deep, the clanging in his head causing him to whimper still. "Hurts," he can't help but sob.

John is sitting him down on a counter of some sort, and Sherlock peeks out under his lashes real quick to see where he is. It's a dim bathroom that looks like the one from this morning but the tub and the toilet are on different sides. John rummages in a small kit he pulled from the cabinet and takes out a bottle of pills.

"This is medicine but it's good. It will make you feel better."

"I don't want it," Sherlock moans, closing his eyes again and pushing at John.

"I know, but I need to give it to you," John says, a hand coming to the back of Sherlock's neck so he could tilt his head back. He puts a pill in his mouth, and Sherlock's insides squirm, and he feels like he's at the bottom of the pool again. "Breathe, Sherlock. It's okay, I'm right here. Now swallow it — there you go. All gone."

Sherlock cries as the dry pill scrapes down his throat, and reaches out blindly for John again. "Mister Hope, he was a monster and he wanted to get me and I couldn't swim, John. I was sinking and and —"

"It was just a dream, Sherlock," John says, giving him a little water before picking him up and holding him close. "I will never let anything happen to you. I promise. I'm sorry for bringing you up to your new room without telling you. I should have waited for you to wake up before moving us into our new flat."

"What – what happened to our old flat?" Sherlock asks, tremulous. His head still hurts, but he's feeling calmer now that John's holding him tight again the way he likes. The big/small feeling is starting to go away.

"We needed a bigger one, so Mrs. Hudson let us move into the one upstairs," John explains as he walks out of the bathroom.

"Missus Husdon is still our landlady?" Sherlock asks, laying his cheek on John's shoulder. He sniffles, the little shuddery gasps tapering off as he relaxes into John's embrace.

"Yep."

"Good. I like her, she's nice," Sherlock mumbles.

"Close your eyes, now. I've got you," John whispers and he crosses the sitting room to the lumpy red armchair. Before Sherlock does as he's told, he catches a glimpse of Molly standing in the middle of the room jotting something down on a clipboard. She looks up and smiles, and he waves a little before turning his face into John's collar bone.

"Everything all right?" Molly says.

"Yeah, just had a bit of a scare. We're all better now. I appreciate you coming out but I confess, I wasn't expecting the assessment to take place so soon," John says settling himself in the chair with Sherlock curled up against his chest. He can hear John's heart, and he nuzzles his face into his jumper. This one is really soft against his cheek and smells like shower gel and mint.

"Inspector Lestrade wanted me to make sure you and Sherlock were settled in and to discuss with you what you can expect for the upcoming court case."

"Wait, court case?" John says, tensing. He places a protective hand on Sherlock's back. "I thought we were all done?"

"No, Dr. Watson. He helped us identify the victims, but…he's at least admitted he was a witness. The courts will want him to testify," Molly says apologetically.

Sherlock is trying to listen, but his head is still muzzy and sore, and he feels warm and cosy, and he doesn't really know what all that means. He remembers reading about courthouses, though. And barristers with funny white wigs and black robes.

"What…does that entail, exactly?" John says swallowing thickly. His voice stays steady though, but Sherlock can still tell something is wrong.

"It requires him to sit before a judge and answer questions on what he may have seen Hope do," Molly says quietly.

"And you're okay with this? After — after all he's _been_ through?" John says, his voice sounding like thunder again, and Sherlock whimpers. He doesn't like it when John's upset, and ex-pecially because it has to do with him.

"Nobody wants to put Sherlock through any more than we have to, but it's not up to us to decide. He's the only thing connecting Hope to the murders. The fact that he was there…it…they're going to have to hear it from him."

"Jesus," John says, and Sherlock flinches. He _knew_ he wasn't supposed to say things, and now because he did, he was making things worse.

"He is a child witness, though so he qualifies automatically for protection. He won't have to set foot in the courtroom. I do _promise_ you that, Dr. Watson," Molly says earnestly.

"M'sorry," Sherlock mumbles barely above a whisper, and John shushes him gently, hand carding through his hair as tenderly as possible. His scalp feels extra sensitive, almost painful, even though the clanging in his head has died down somewhat. His breath hitches, and his brings the middle two fingers of his good hand into his mouth. It soothes him a little and he manages to turn his face to the side, peeping out of his hiding spot.

Molly's wearing a bright yellow jumper today with a basket of ducklings on the front. The bright colours almost hurt his eyes, so he looks down at her shoes. They are new, and a little bit fancy, and when he looks up again he notices that her hair is swept up and she has red lipstick on her lips. She didn't look like that the last time he saw her, and he wonders why. When he looks closer, details like the fact she has a new kitten, and she took a taxi over here, and she was standing next to someone who was smoking a cigarette, and she only got a few hours of sleep and and and and — surge to the surface, making him sob anew with a swell of fresh pain. He tugs on John's jumper and tries to muffle the new tears with his fingers.

"Miss Hooper —"

"Call me Molly, please," she says, her gaze sympathetic when she looks at Sherlock.

"Molly," John says getting to his feet again, and Sherlock snuffles piteously. "I have a very ill child on my hands. Perhaps this is best continued at another time?"

"Yes of course. I just wanted to give you a heads up so you aren't surprised in the coming days," Molly says, standing likewise from the other armchair across from them. "This is a high profile investigation. There are some important people tied to it, and the Inspector and I want to try and prepare you both as much as we can." She reaches out a hand and sweeps some of Sherlock's hair off his brow, and Sherlock's eyes flutter closed for a moment at the feel of her warm fingers. He pulls his hand away from his mouth and grips onto the cuff of her sleeve briefly before she pulls away, and she gives him a finger to hold onto. It is oddly comforting, and he grips it securely.

"What important people?" John says.

"Some people who hold positions in the British Government," Molly says. She releases Sherlock's hand and pulls a yellow envelope out of the bag slung over her shoulder. "We were able to find his birth certificate." She hands the envelope to John. "His full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Holmes…" John says. "You mean, as in the late Prime Minister _Anton Holmes?"_

"I'm afraid so. This is his son. Well…his illegitimate son."

"How did he end up with a serial killer?" John says.

"That is something the police are still trying to figure out," Molly says.

"Christ," John sighs, and walks over to set the envelope on the small writing desk.

"I'm really sorry about all of this," Molly says. "Someone will be in touch shortly. But the good news is, Michelle Stamford has requested to be Sherlock's social worker in the process of getting him officially placed, so that should go smoothly at least."

"Yeah," John says, pulling Sherlock up higher into his arms. Sherlock's fists his right hand into the back of John's jumper as best as he can with the splint. Molly waves at him before she leaves, and Sherlock lays his head back against John's shoulder. His head was finally starting to feel better, but now everything felt like it was rocking back and forth.

"John?" he says.

"Yeah?" John says, hand traveling up and down his back.

"Am I gonna have to talk to the police man again?"

"Yes. I am so sorry, Sherlock. They still need your help."

Sherlock frowns a little. The twisted face of Mister Hope swims to the surface of his memory, and his hateful words echo in his ears.

"John?"

"What is it, Bones?"

"If I help them, Mister Hope will be locked up forever and he won't be able to hurt anyone ever again, right?"

"That's correct."

"And I'm the only one that can do it?" Sherlock asks raising his head to look at John.

John gives him a searching look. "I'm afraid so, Sherlock," he says quietly.

"I think maybe…I'm okay with that," Sherlock decides. Mister Hope was a bad man and he hurt a lot of people. Sherlock didn't want anybody else to get hurt anymore.

John gives him a radiant smile, the one that makes Sherlock warm inside, and pulls him close in a tight embrace.

"You are really quite extraordinary, you know that?"

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond to this so he just hugs John back, resting his head back down against his shoulder. He was feeling heavy, and he yawns widely. "Come on. It's time for another dose. I'll make you some warm soup and then we can lay back down, sound good?" John says. Sherlock nods, too exhausted to do much else, and allows himself to be placed at a large table on a stack of books.

John gives him the medicine that tastes like cherries and vinegar, and Sherlock grimaces, rubbing his tongue furiously against the roof of his mouth. John gives a sympathetic smile, and hands him a glass of water before bustling about and heating up some chicken noodle soup from a can on the small cook top. It smells really good, and Sherlock tummy grumbles. He is reminded of his nightmare, and has to remind himself that he is with John now, and John won't let him starve no matter what because he promised he would always take care of him. Sherlock wants to take care of John too, and when he sets the bowl down in front of him, Sherlock immediately takes up the spoon and scoops a steady amount of broth up. He blows carefully like John did that morning when eating oatmeal, and holds it out to him.

"You eat too, John," Sherlock says. John chuckles as he sits next to him with a cup of tea.

"I will in a little bit."

"No, now," Sherlock insists, lifting the spoon a little higher. One of the noodles falls off and lands back into the bowl with a little splash. "Missus Hus…_Hud_-son says we need to both be big and strong."

"That's right, she did say that didn't she?" John says, mouth crooking into a grin when Sherlock nods earnestly. "All right then." He opens his mouth and lets Sherlock give him a bite. "That's good. Now you."

Sherlock nods seriously, and spoons some of the soup into his own mouth. It's warm and tastes delicious, and he wants to gobble it all down, but he dutifully holds another spoonful up for John. John laughs a little and they finish the soup that way, taking turns back and forth until Sherlock is full, and his limbs are heavy.

John clears away the dishes, and Sherlock hops off of his chair and follows him to the sink. He wraps an arm around John's leg and leans against him sleepily while he washes up, his eyes drooping and his head falling forward.

"Looks like an early bedtime tonight," John says picking him up.

"M'not too tired. I can stay up more," Sherlock mumbles. "Want to stay up."

John hums and carries him up the stairs. "We had a busy day today, and you need your rest so you don't get even more sick," he says and helps Sherlock dress into a pair of soft pyjamas.

"But I'm getting better," Sherlock pouts, and John helps him crawl in under the blankets.

"One step at a time, love," John says and pulls the quilt up to his chin. His eyes are trying to shut despite his want to stay awake.

"John?" Sherlock says.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Is my name really William?"

"According to your birth certificate," John says sitting on the side of the bed. He braces his arm on the other side of Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock plays with his fingers.

"I don't like that name. It doesn't sound like me." He yawns.

"What does sound like you, then?" John asks. He grabs Geoffrey from the bedside table and tucks him under the covers.

Sherlock thinks for a moment, a thought occurring to him. "Why do you call me Bones, sometimes?"

"Oh, it's just a silly little nickname. Do you want me to stop calling you that?"

"No. I like it," Sherlock decides. He cuddles Geoffrey against his face for a moment. "I have a lot of nicknames, though. Mister Lestrade calls me 'sport', and Michelle calls me 'sweetheart', and Missus Husdon calls me 'little love'. I didn't know you could have so many names. Why do people do that?"

John tilts his head curiously and brushes back some of his hair. "People give each other nicknames to endear one another. They mean something specific to someone, and it's a form of affection."

"You call me two things," Sherlock says. He wraps his fingers around John's wrist. "Is when you call me 'Bones' the same as when you call me 'love'?"

John's eyebrows lift, and he looks away for a moment. "I suppose they do. They both mean that you are very dear to me."

Sherlock sigh and burrows down into the blankets some more. He can't keep his eyes open, but he doesn't want to let go of John and holds on as best as he can through his drowsiness.

He decides that nicknames are just a little bit strange, but he likes when John calls him those things. He's only ever been called mean things from Father and Mister Hope, and didn't know there was another side to it. It seems important, somehow and he thinks that John needs a name too. Before he can come up with one, however, he feels himself succumb to a deep sleep, warm and for the first time content to close his eyes knowing that when he wakes, John will be there...

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John whispers and kisses his forehead. "I love you."


End file.
